Chapter 8 - The Ambush in the Dark
With Harrison Jenkins in federal custody, Bradley lost his last shred of protection.
Vanguard Crest Financial issued an emergency press release terminating Bradley’s employment and freezing his corporate accounts pending a full forensic inquiry.
The federal grand jury unsealed an arrest warrant for Bradley at four o'clock.
Yet when federal agents raided the Brooklyn brownstone on Kane Street, the apartment was empty.
Bradley had vanished.
"His passport was flagged at JFK and Newark," Lorenzo reported inside the Alpine war room.
"He hasn't used his credit cards, but an ATM in Midtown dispensed five thousand dollars from an unregistered account two hours ago."
"He is running," I said, a knot of dread tightening in my gut.
"No," Matteo corrected, studying a map of Manhattan on the central monitor.
"A narcissist like Bradley does not run until he settles his score."
"He believes his entire life was ruined because you refused to stay quiet."
"He will try to find you."
"He doesn't know where this house is," I reasoned, glancing around the fortified walls.
"No," Matteo agreed.
"But he knows where you go when you are broken."
I stopped breathing.
My mother’s resting place.
St. Michael’s Cemetery in Queens.
Today was the fourth anniversary of her passing.
Every year on this exact day, no matter the weather, I had visited her grave to lay fresh white lilies on her headstone.
Bradley had mocked the ritual every November, calling it a pathetic waste of money.
He knew the date.
He knew the exact plot under the weeping willow near the cemetery’s western wall.
"He’s waiting for me there," I whispered, the blood draining from my face.
"Yes," Matteo said, his eyes darkening.
"And we are going to give him what he wants."
"Matteo, no!" I cried out.
"He has nothing left to lose now, he might have a gun!"
Matteo walked over to where I stood and took both of my hands into his.
His touch was steady, warm, and entirely devoid of fear.
"Do you trust me, Alexandra?" he asked, searching my eyes.
I looked at the man who had sheltered me, who had respected my boundaries, who had turned his entire empire into an umbrella to protect me from the storm.
"I trust you with my life," I whispered.
"Then let us put an end to this ghost once and for all," Matteo said.
Forty minutes later, a single black sedan pulled up to the gates of St. Michael’s Cemetery.
The November fog hung low between the granite headstones, thick as cotton wool.
I stepped out of the vehicle alone, clutching a bouquet of white lilies wrapped in brown butcher paper.
My footsteps echoed softly on the damp gravel path as I walked toward the weeping willow tree.
The cemetery was completely silent except for the dripping of rain from bare oak branches.
As I reached the marble marker bearing my mother's name, a dark figure stepped out from behind a massive family mausoleum twenty yards away.
It was Bradley.
His hair was wild, his trench coat soaked with mud, his eyes bloodshot and crazed like those of a rabid dog.
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In his right hand, he held a black snub-nosed revolver.
"You think you won, you fucking traitor?" Bradley snarled, cocking the hammer of the gun with a sickening click.
