Chapter 2 - Room 1908Naomi did not react the way most people would have.
No gasp.
No accusation.
No frightened step backward.
She simply stared at Vincent and asked the only useful question.
“Do you remember pulling the trigger?”
Vincent stood near the study window, breathing slowly.
“No.”
“Do you remember holding a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember her falling?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember why?”
“No.”
Naomi nodded once.
“Then we do not assume you killed her.”
Vincent almost laughed.
“That is unusually generous.”
“It’s unusually logical.”
“I remember blood.”
“That proves someone bled.”
“I remember the weapon.”
“That proves a weapon existed.”
“I remember you screaming my name.”
Naomi’s eyes changed.
“That part may be real.”
He looked at her.
“You remember the hotel?”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“I remember screaming your name last night.”
Silence.
Vincent straightened.
“When?”
“At the warehouse.”
His pulse slowed.
“Why?”
“Because you collapsed.”
Vincent stared.
“You didn’t mention that.”
“You asked what happened at the warehouse. I gave you the parts that mattered first.”
“I collapsed and you considered that a secondary detail?”
“You were already forgetting streets.”
Vincent’s mouth flattened.
“Point taken.”
Naomi walked toward the kitchen and returned with bottled water.
He looked at it suspiciously.
She noticed.
“It’s sealed.”
Vincent inspected the cap.
Naomi’s expression softened for a fraction of a second.
He hated that she had noticed fear.
He hated more that she pretended she had not.
“We go to the Halcyon,” he said.
“No.”
Vincent looked up.
Naomi folded her arms.
“You are not walking into a hotel connected to two dead men while you have unexplained memory gaps.”
“My brother isn’t dead.”
“I meant Daniel and Evan.”
Vincent’s face tightened.
Naomi’s younger brother had been twenty-three when he died.
Vincent remembered the file now.
Evan Brooks.
Night maintenance supervisor at the Halcyon Hotel.
Shot behind a convenience store four blocks from work.
Police called it a robbery.
No suspects.
Naomi had been twenty-six.
She had taken three days off from her administrative job at the Moretti shipping company.
Then returned to work as if grief were something she could schedule around.
Vincent had noticed.
He had never told her.
Six months later, when his executive secretary resigned, Vincent promoted Naomi.
He told himself it was because she was competent.
It was.
That had not been the only reason.
Naomi held up the room key.
“If someone left this for us, they may be waiting.”
“Then we find out.”
“You said no calls.”
“I won’t call.”
“No security?”
Vincent hesitated.
Every instinct screamed against going anywhere alone.
Every instruction he had left himself screamed the opposite.
Trust no one else.
“Daniel’s dead,” he said.
Naomi nodded.
“Carlo may be compromised.”
“Yes.”
“Matteo may be involved.”
“Yes.”
“My driver had access to the missing jacket.”
“Yes.”
Vincent looked at her.
“That leaves you.”
Naomi’s expression became unreadable.
“Unfortunately.”
He almost smiled.
“We leave through the service elevator.”
“You’re wearing a hospital wristband.”
Vincent looked down.
He tore it off.
Naomi extended her hand.
“What?”
“The band.”
“Why?”
“Evidence.”
Vincent handed it over.
“Remind me never to commit a crime around you.”
Naomi slipped the band into a plastic bag from her portfolio.
“That would simplify my calendar.”
They left the penthouse twenty minutes later.
Vincent wore dark jeans, a black sweater, and a coat from a guest closet because his jacket was still missing.
Naomi changed from heels into flat shoes.
He noticed.
She saw him noticing.
“What?”
“You’re prepared for running.”
“I’ve worked for you for six years.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It answers many questions.”
They took the freight elevator to the basement.
No guards.
Vincent disliked that immediately.
“Where is residential security?”
“I dismissed them.”
“When?”
“Four thirty.”
“Why?”
“You ordered me to keep the floor empty until eight.”
He looked toward the cameras.
“Do they know I’m awake?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Naomi drove.
Vincent sat in the passenger seat.
That alone would have shocked everyone who knew him.
He rarely rode without security.
He never let Naomi drive him.
Yet she moved through Manhattan traffic with confidence.
Vincent watched reflections in side mirrors.
One black SUV followed them for three blocks.
Then turned.
“Paranoid?” Naomi asked.
“Yes.”
“You say that like it’s healthy.”
“People trying to kill me make paranoia statistically reasonable.”
Naomi glanced at him.
“People may be trying to kill me too.”
His expression changed.
“We don’t know that.”
“Evan was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“If this is connected, somebody may care that I know.”
Vincent stared out the window.
“Then you should leave the city.”
Naomi laughed.
“No.”
“That was not a suggestion.”
“Then it was ignored efficiently.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don’t understand what this could become.”
“I understand you woke up drugged, a dead man left evidence about my brother, and someone stole your jacket from a secured garage.”
She stopped at a red light.
“I’m already involved.”
“You are involved because of me.”
“No.”
Naomi looked directly at him.
“I was involved eight years before you knew.”
The light changed.
She drove on.
Vincent had no answer.
The Halcyon rose on West Fifty-Third Street.
Old money disguised as hospitality.
Gold-framed windows.
Stone façade.
Doormen who remembered faces and forgot questions.
Vincent’s family had once owned thirty percent through a shell company.
Matteo had handled the investment.
Vincent had not thought about that in years.
Naomi parked two blocks away.
They entered through a side restaurant connected to the lobby.
Vincent wore glasses.
Naomi nearly laughed.
He frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have made the face.”
“What face?”
“The face you make when you think something about me is amusing but you want to keep your job.”
Naomi smiled.
“I resigned emotionally around three this morning.”
Vincent stopped walking.
“What?”
“I said emotionally.”
He continued.
“Coward.”
The hotel lobby smelled of polished wood and expensive flowers.
Naomi slowed.
Vincent noticed.
“You okay?”
“This was Evan’s workplace.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Her eyes moved toward a service corridor.
“I haven’t been inside since he died.”
Vincent’s voice softened.
“We can leave.”
Naomi looked at him.
“You would?”
“If you ask.”
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she shook her head.
“No.”
They reached the elevator.
Room 1908 was on the nineteenth floor.
The keycard still worked.
That bothered Vincent.
Hotel cards expired automatically after checkout.
Someone had programmed this one deliberately.
He drew a pistol from the concealed holster Naomi had not noticed until then.
Her eyes widened.
“Where did that come from?”
“Do you really want the answer?”
“No.”
Vincent opened the door.
Darkness.
Curtains closed.
No sound.
He entered first.
Naomi followed.
The room smelled unused.
Bed made.
No luggage.
No bodies.
Vincent checked the bathroom.
Empty.
Naomi closed the door.
“There’s nothing.”
Vincent’s eyes moved across the walls.
“She knows where to look.”
Naomi frowned.
“Your note.”
“Yes.”
He watched her.
“You know this hotel.”
“Not this room.”
“Evan did.”
Naomi went still.
She walked toward the window.
Then the desk.
Then the minibar.
Nothing.
Vincent saw frustration growing.
“Think like your brother.”
“Evan was a maintenance supervisor.”
“So?”
“So if he wanted to hide something…”
She stopped.
The air vent.
Naomi pulled over a chair.
Vincent caught her wrist.
“I’ll do it.”
“I’m capable.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“You weigh less. If the chair breaks, I’d prefer it happens to me.”
Naomi stared.
“That might be the closest thing to chivalry you’ve ever said.”
“Enjoy it.”
Vincent climbed.
The vent screws were loose.
He removed them.
Inside was a small black pouch.
Naomi stopped breathing.
Vincent climbed down.
They opened it on the bed.
A flash drive.
A hotel employee badge belonging to Evan Brooks.
And a photograph.
Evan stood beside another man.
Daniel.
The dead man from the warehouse.
Naomi sat slowly.
“They knew each other.”
Vincent studied the photo.
Date stamp.
Eight years earlier.
“What was Daniel’s last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never asked last night?”
“You wouldn’t let me call anyone.”
Vincent examined the employee badge.
On the back, something had been scratched with a key.
B17.
“Basement seventeen?”
Naomi shook her head.
“There is no basement seventeen.”
“Storage?”
“Maybe locker.”
Vincent inserted the flash drive into a hotel television adapter.
Password protected.
Naomi stared at the screen.
“What would Evan use?”
“Birthday?”
“No.”
“Your birthday?”
“He forgot mine twice.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Naomi tried several combinations.
Nothing.
Then she looked at the badge.
“B17.”
She entered it.
Access granted.
Three folders.
MORETTI.
VIDEO.
NAOMI.
Vincent glanced at her.
Her face went pale.
“Open Moretti first.”
He did.
Scanned financial records appeared.
Payments from Moretti-controlled companies.
Transfers to offshore accounts.
Names.
Vincent recognized several.
Police officials.
Judges.
Union leaders.
Then a recurring account.
M Holdings.
“Matteo,” Naomi whispered.
“Maybe.”
Payment dates went back fourteen years.
Vincent scrolled.
One transfer appeared two days before Antonio Moretti died.
$1.8 million.
Recipient coded only as HART.
Vincent’s throat tightened.
He opened VIDEO.
Security footage.
Hotel corridor.
Timestamp: eight years earlier.
Evan appeared.
He pushed a cleaning cart past a conference room.
Then stopped.
The door was open slightly.
Inside stood Matteo.
Vincent leaned closer.
Another man faced him.
Carlo DeSantis.
Vincent’s oldest friend.
Naomi whispered, “Carlo?”
Vincent said nothing.
Evan paused.
Listened.
Then the video ended.
Another clip.
Parking garage.
Evan leaving work.
A black sedan followed him.
Vincent recognized the plate pattern.
Moretti fleet.
Naomi covered her mouth.
“No.”
Vincent opened the third folder.
NAOMI.
One audio file.
Naomi clicked.
Static.
Then Evan’s voice.
“Naomi, if you ever hear this…”
She stopped breathing.
“I’m sorry.”
Naomi sat on the edge of the bed.
Vincent watched her.
Evan continued.
“I saw something at work. Something involving people you don’t want to know.”
He sounded frightened.
“I’m recording this because if something happens, I need you to know the robbery story is probably a lie.”
Naomi began crying silently.
“I found records. I copied what I could.”
A pause.
“There’s a guy named Daniel helping me. He works accounting for one of Moretti’s companies.”
Vincent looked at the photograph.
“He says the boss doesn’t know.”
Naomi looked at Vincent.
Vincent’s chest tightened.
“At least, not the young one.”
Vincent had taken control two years before Evan’s death.
“He says Matteo has been running things behind Vincent’s back.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
Evan’s voice continued.
“And Carlo knows.”
Naomi wiped her face.
“I don’t know how deep it goes.”
A sound in the background.
Evan lowered his voice.
“If I get out of this, I’m leaving New York.”
Then a laugh.
“I’ll convince Naomi to come with me. She won’t. She likes her stupid job.”
Naomi laughed through tears.
Vincent looked away.
“Sorry, Nay.”
Evan’s voice softened.
“You always took care of me.”
Naomi’s shoulders shook.
“I should’ve been better at taking care of you.”
The recording ended.
Silence filled the hotel room.
Vincent did not know what to say.
He had ordered deaths.
He had attended funerals.
He had watched men bleed.
Comfort was a language nobody had taught him.
He sat beside Naomi anyway.
She did not look at him.
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
“Eight years.”
Vincent said nothing.
“I worked for your family every day after they killed my brother.”
His chest tightened.
“Naomi—”
“I scheduled Matteo’s meetings.”
She laughed bitterly.
“I ordered his birthday lunch.”
Vincent looked at his hands.
“I promoted Carlo’s appointments.”
Her voice cracked.
“I sent Christmas gifts to the men who murdered Evan.”
“We do not know who pulled the trigger.”
She turned.
“Does it matter?”
Vincent met her eyes.
“No.”
For once, he did not defend the Moretti name.
Naomi looked away.
“He said the young boss didn’t know.”
Vincent felt no relief.
“I should have known.”
“You cannot know everything.”
“That is what incompetent men say when consequences reach them.”
Naomi looked at him.
Vincent stood.
“I inherited an organization with rot inside it.”
“You were twenty-nine.”
“I was still responsible.”
She watched him.
“Why are you doing this?”
“What?”
“Trying to make my brother’s death your guilt.”
Vincent looked toward the closed curtains.
“Because if it belongs to me, I can do something with it.”
Naomi understood.
“Control.”
He said nothing.
“You turn guilt into control.”
“Usually.”
She stood.
“Maybe stop.”
Vincent almost laughed.
“That sounds terrible.”
Naomi wiped her face.
“We have evidence.”
“Copies.”
“Yes.”
“Who left it?”
“Daniel.”
“Maybe.”
Vincent examined the black pouch.
There was another zipper inside.
He opened it.
A folded receipt.
St. Catherine’s Clinic.
Dated six years earlier.
Patient initials: A.M.
Vincent froze.
“A.M.”
Naomi frowned.
“Antonio Moretti?”
“My father died twelve years ago.”
The clinic visit was six years too late.
“Another Moretti?”
Vincent flipped the receipt.
Handwriting.
She survived.
Vincent’s blood went cold.
Naomi saw his face.
“What?”
“My mother.”
“Your mother died ten years ago.”
“No.”
Vincent stared at the paper.
“She disappeared ten years ago.”
Naomi blinked.
“You told everyone she died overseas.”
“That was the official story.”
“What happened?”
Vincent’s voice hardened.
“She left after my father died. She said she could not live around the organization anymore.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never looked?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She disappeared.”
Naomi stared at the receipt.
“Her name?”
“Alessandra Moretti.”
A.M.
Vincent picked up the flash drive.
“If Daniel found her—”
A knock sounded at the hotel door.
Both froze.
Three slow knocks.
Then two.
Vincent raised the gun.
Naomi moved beside the bathroom wall.
A voice came through the door.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Vincent recognized it.
Carlo.
Naomi’s face drained.
Carlo continued.
“I know you’re in there.”
Vincent’s grip tightened.
“Open the door.”
Vincent looked at Naomi.
She shook her head.
Carlo spoke again.
“And before you decide I’m the enemy…”
A pause.
“You should know Naomi is the reason you were poisoned.”
Vincent looked at her.
Naomi went completely still.
May you like
Carlo continued from the hallway.
“She put the drug in your whiskey.”
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