Chapter 2 - THE BROKEN TRACKS
He took the grand marble stairs three at a time, a hulking shadow moving with lethal speed. Down in the foyer, an elderly butler stepped forward, frantically holding out a heavy black umbrella. Victor tore past him without glancing sideways, throwing open the massive iron-reinforced oak front doors and bursting directly into the tempest.
The rain slammed into his face like ice water, instantly soaking his hair and plastering his white linen shirt to his chest. He sprinted down the winding gravel driveway toward the estate's rear perimeter, his leather dress shoes slipping slightly on the slick stones before finding traction.
The back gate of Harrow Point came into view through the dark treeline.
It stood wide open.
It was not bent, cut, or forced. It was unlocked and swung wide on its massive iron hinges, swaying lazily in the gale-force wind.
Deep, fresh tire ruts tore through the gravel pathway, churning up yellow mud where a heavy vehicle had accelerated wildly before veering onto the unlit public access road that wound through the forest toward the highway.
The red LED light above the security camera mounted on the brick pillar was dead.
Footsteps crunched heavily on the gravel behind him. Marcus Dell—head of security, a barrel-chested veteran with a scar running from his jaw to his collarbone—appeared from the nearby guard station, carrying a high-powered tactical flashlight and a drawn weapon.
"Gate camera dropped at eleven thirty-one," Marcus shouted over the roar of the wind, sweeping the beam of white light across the empty ground.
"How long?" Victor demanded, his chest barely moving despite the full sprint.
"Still down. The main power relay was severed from inside the shed," Marcus replied, his face grim. "This wasn't an outside hack, Victor. Someone flipped the breaker from inside the estate grounds."
Victor didn't answer. His sharp eyes were already sweeping the mud near the thick boxwood hedges lining the driveway. Something caught the edge of the flashlight beam—a faint blue glow vibrating beneath a bush.
Victor dropped to one knee, ignoring the mud soaking into his trousers, and reached into the leaves.
It was a smartphone. Hannah’s phone. The screen was badly shattered, but the display still glowed faintly through the grime. Displayed on the cracked glass was an incoming call notification from Victor’s private number—a call he had made to her just twenty minutes earlier that had gone unanswered.
Victor slowly stood up, squeezing the broken phone in his fist until his knuckles turned ivory white. "Where is Gregory?"
Marcus turned his beam toward the garage complex at the side of the main house. "I just ran a quick sweep of the vehicles. Gregory’s black Mercedes is gone."
Victor turned his head slowly, his dark eyes narrowing into slits of pure fury. "What did you say?"
"He left the grounds at nine forty," Marcus said, pulling an electronic gate log pad from his tactical vest. "No departure log filed. No destination noted."
For a brief, suspended moment, the roaring wind and pounding rain seemed to mute entirely.
Gregory Vance.
Fourteen years.
Gregory was the estate manager of Harrow Point. He was the keeper of schedules, the holder of master keys, the man who managed Victor’s legal assets, personal calendar, and private vaults. Gregory was the man who knew which hidden door Victor walked through when nightmares kept him awake at 3:00 AM. He was the man who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Victor under a black umbrella twelve Novembers ago at the double funeral of Victor’s wife, Elena, and their infant son, Leo.
Gregory was the one person Victor Castellano had trusted enough to stop watching.
"Victor..." Marcus’s voice cut through the silence, harsher now, laced with alarming urgency. "I just came from the main vault."
Victor looked at his security chief. "Speak."
"The missing Delacroix shipping ledgers—the ones you thought Hannah stole," Marcus said, holding up a printout wrapped in a plastic sheet. "She didn't touch them."
Victor felt the earth tilt beneath his feet. "What are you talking about?"
"The digital safe in your private office was opened at six-oh-four this morning," Marcus revealed. "The access code was logged."
"Whose code?" Victor growled.
Marcus hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Either yours... or the master override code given only to Gregory."
A cold, sickening weight settled deep in Victor's gut. Four hours ago, Gregory Vance had walked into Victor’s private study, placing a tablet on his desk. On that tablet was a grainy, low-resolution video showing Hannah Bell stepping out of Victor’s office after hours, clutching a manila folder. Gregory had added a carefully constructed narrative: Hannah was buried under massive hospital bills from her late husband’s illness; she was a desperate, broke widow; she had sold the family shipping secrets to Victor’s rivals, the Delacroix crime family.
It had been a story so artfully painted, so logical, that Victor—blinded by his own instinct to protect his empire—had almost swallowed it whole. He had ordered Hannah to stay on the property tonight, telling her they would speak at 10:00 PM.
He had kept her right here. Locked in his house. Waiting.
And Gregory had used that exact window of time to harvest her like a lamb for the slaughter.
Victor closed his eyes for half a second, a soundless breath escaping his lips. "I handed her to him on a silver platter."
"Not yet you haven't," Marcus said sternly, tapping his holster. "Let's fall back inside, call in the full security detail, and trace the car."
"I'm not going inside," Victor snapped, his eyes snapping open with lethal focus.
"Victor, listen to reason! You don't know where they went. You don't have a license plate for the secondary car!"
"I said I'll find out!" Victor roared over the thunder.
"Mama has your lucky coin!"
The tiny, high-pitched voice drifted from the half-open back entrance of the estate.
May you like
Victor turned. Standing under the doorway awning, wrapped in a blanket provided by Teddy, was little Poppy. She was pointing her little wet finger toward the black tire marks fading down the dark asphalt road.
"Mama took the shiny round picture from your desk," Poppy hiccuped, her voice echoing in the rain. "She put it in her coat pocket so you would come find us!"
