Chapter 3 - The Brownstone on Kane Street
The black GMC Suburban glided through the cobblestone streets of Cobble Hill like a ghost ship.
Rain had begun to pelt the tinted windows, blurring the brownstones and antique gas lamps outside.
Matteo sat beside me in the rear cabin, his tablet resting on his lap as he monitored real-time financial tracking software.
Lorenzo drove while another guard sat shotgun with an encrypted police radio scanner buzzing softly on the console.
"Jenkins left his trading desk at Vanguard Crest twenty minutes ago," Lorenzo reported, glancing in the rearview mirror.
"He stopped at a high-end wine shop on Court Street."
"He bought a bottle of cheap scotch and two cartons of cigarettes."
My heart slammed against my cracked ribs like a trapped bird.
"He always buys scotch when he wants to finish an argument," I whispered, my palms sweating against my wool coat.
"He knows I came to work."
"He knows I didn't stay in bed like he ordered."
Matteo did not look up from his screen.
"Then he will have an audience for his final performance," Matteo remarked calmly.
The Suburban pulled up directly in front of the three-story Kane Street brownstone.
I had paid four thousand dollars a month for this rental while Bradley spent his bonuses on Rolexes and sports gambling.
The front door of the brownstone opened just as Lorenzo killed the Suburban's engine.
Bradley Jenkins stepped out onto the top stone step, holding an umbrella in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.
He wore his tailored navy blazer, his hair slicked back with expensive pomade, looking every bit the pristine Wall Street golden boy.
Then his eyes landed on the black vehicle parked in his reserved space.
His jaw hardened into the familiar, vicious sneer that had ruled my life for thirty-six months.
He stomped down the stone steps, splashing rainwater across his leather loafers.
"Hey!" Bradley shouted, pounding his fist against the Suburban's rear window.
"You can't park this fucking bus in my spot, get this piece of shit out of my driveway!"
The tinted window rolled down slowly.
Bradley opened his mouth to unleash another barrage of curses, but the words withered in his throat.
He did not see a frightened woman cowering in the backseat.
He saw Matteo DeLuca sitting in imperial silence, flanked by Lorenzo’s massive frame stepping out of the front door.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Jenkins," Matteo said through the opening, his voice smooth as aged whiskey.
Bradley blinked, taking half a step backward on the wet pavement.
He recognized Matteo DeLuca immediately; every junior executive in Manhattan finance knew the face of the DeLuca syndicate.
"Mr. DeLuca?" Bradley stammered, his arrogant sneer melting into confused apprehension.
"What... what is this?"
"Why are you outside my house?"
The rear door clicked open, and Lorenzo held an umbrella above Matteo as he stepped out into the rain.
Then Matteo reached back into the vehicle and offered his arm.
I took it.
I stepped onto the wet asphalt, wearing Matteo’s oversized cashmere overcoat draped across my bruised shoulders.
Bradley’s eyes bulged when he saw me emerge from the shadows of DeLuca's car.
His face shifted from shock to blinding, possessive fury in less than a second.
"Alex?" he hissed, taking an aggressive step toward me.
"What the hell is this?"
"Did you complain to your boss because of a little domestic spat?"
Lorenzo stepped between Bradley and me like a concrete wall.
"Take another step toward the lady, and I will tear your arm out of its socket," Lorenzo said without raising his voice.
Bradley laughed nervously, glancing around at the quiet neighborhood street where several neighbors were watching from behind lace curtains.
"This is private property!" Bradley yelled, puffing out his chest.
"She lives with me!"
"She is my fiancée, and she’s mentally unstable!"
"She fell down the stairs last night because she had too much wine, and now she’s making up stories!"
Matteo did not raise his voice.
He adjusted his cufflinks with cold precision.
"We are going inside to collect her passport, her jewelry, and her tax records," Matteo stated.
"You have five minutes to give us the safe combination, or Lorenzo will cut the wall apart with a rotary saw."
"You can't go in there!" Bradley screamed, pulling his phone from his pocket.
"My brother is Harrison Jenkins, NYPD Nineteenth Precinct commander!"
"One phone call and you will all be locked up in central booking for home invasion!"
Matteo smiled.
It was the first time I saw him smile, and it sent an icy chill straight through my spine.
"Call him, Bradley," Matteo invited softly.
"Call Harrison."
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"Tell him Matteo DeLuca is standing on your front steps."
"Ask him if his pension fund can survive the audit I initiated with the Internal Affairs Bureau twenty minutes ago."
