Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Fifth Avenue
Back in Manhattan, the office on the forty-fifth floor of the Romano Tower was silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of a fountain pen.
Adrien Romano sat behind his massive desk of polished obsidian, his dark eyes fixed on a spread of financial documents regarding the North End expansion. His hair was perfectly styled, his shirt crisp, his tie immaculate. To anyone looking through the glass walls, he was the same untouchable sovereign who had ruled the city's underbelly for half a decade.
Across from him sat Dominic Vale, his childhood friend and underboss. Dominic was watching him with a strange, heavy intensity, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his leather coat.
"The Moretti shipments are clearing the Jersey turnpike by midnight," Dominic said, leaning forward. "We have the customs agents paid off through the end of the fiscal year. We're clear, Adrien."
"Good," Adrien said, his voice flat as he signed the bottom of a page. "Make sure the third terminal has secondary security. I don't want any surprises from the federal task force."
Dominic didn't leave. He stayed in his chair, his eyes tracking the silver fountain pen. "Adrien."
"What?"
"It’s been four weeks," Dominic said quietly.
Adrien’s pen didn't stop. He flipped to the next page, his expression entirely deadpan. "The Boston port authority is asking for a recalculation on the dry-dock fees. Look into it."
"Adrien, look at me," Dominic commanded, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper.
Slowly, Adrien set the pen down. He leaned back in his leather chair, interlocking his long fingers, his gray eyes turning to absolute ice as they met his friend's. "If you are here to discuss corporate business, Dominic, do so. If not, I suggest you go down to the docks and ensure my cargo isn't seized."
"She’s gone, Adrien," Dominic said, refusing to back down. "Clare has been gone for twenty-eight days. No credit card usage, no cellular tracking, no passport checks. Her lawyers haven't filed for a separation, and her family hasn't heard from her. She vanished into thin air out of your service elevator, and you haven't deployed a single scout to find her."
Adrien’s jaw tightened, a small muscle pulsing beneath the skin of his cheek. It was the only sign of irritation on an otherwise perfect stone face. "Clare is an adult, Dominic. She chose to leave. She left her jewelry, her cards, and her keys on the vanity. It was a calculated departure."
"And you're just going to let her walk?" Dominic asked, his eyes wide with genuine disbelief. "You're the head of the Romano family. People don't leave you. More importantly, she’s your wife. You loved that girl, Adrien. I saw you look at her at the wedding. I saw how you handled her."
"Love is a luxury for men who don't have three federal grand juries pending against their name," Adrien said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal register. He stood up, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window that showed the gray expanse of Central Park below. "She wanted a quiet life. She was tired of the security, the threats, the midnight calls. If she found a door out, then she is no longer my responsibility."
"You're a liar," Dominic said, standing up behind him. "You’re lying to me, and you're lying to yourself. You said it at the gala, didn't you? In the lounge. We were all drinking that twenty-year bourbon, and Thomas asked what you'd do if she left. You said life would go on."
Adrien stared at his own reflection in the glass. The memory of that night was clear—the smell of the smoke, the heat of the alcohol, the feeling of absolute invulnerability that came with being the most powerful man in a room full of powerful men. He had said it because it was what a Romano was supposed to say. A king did not admit that his crown was heavy because of a woman. A king did not show his generals where his skin was soft.
"I said what was true," Adrien whispered against the glass. "Life does go on, Dominic. Look at the street below. The cars are still moving. The money is still coming in. The family is secure."
"The family is dead if you lose your mind, Adrien," Dominic said, walking toward the office door. He paused with his hand on the handle, looking back over his shoulder at the lonely silhouette of his boss. "You can tell yourself whatever you want to protect your pride. But I’ve known you since we were eight years old. You haven't slept in a month. Your house smells like stale coffee and old wool, and you haven't turned the lights on in the master bedroom since the night she walked out. You aren't surviving, Adrien. You're just waiting for her to come back and prove you wrong."
The door clicked shut, leaving Adrien alone with the city he had conquered.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his private phone—the one that didn't have his captains' numbers on it. He opened the photo gallery. There was a picture of Clare from two summers ago, sitting on the deck of the house in the Hamptons. Her hair was messy from the wind, her face sun-kissed, and she was laughing at something he had said off-camera. She wasn't wearing diamonds then. She was wearing an old, oversized linen shirt she had stolen from his closet.
Adrien stared at her face until the screen went dark.
May you like
He raised his right hand, the heavy silver signet ring on his finger pressing against the glass window until it left a dull smudge on the pristine surface.
"Where are you, Clare?" he whispered into the empty air.
