Chapter 3 - The Background Check
By 9:00 p.m., the rain outside the penthouse had turned into a thick, miserable sleet that blurred the lights of the Manhattan skyline. Inside Dante’s study, the air was warm, smelling of high-end cigar smoke and old leather.
Marco walked in, sliding a thick manila folder across the black walnut desk. His usual easy-going demeanor was entirely gone, replaced by the grim focus of an investigator who didn't like what he had found.
"You were right, Boss," Marco said, pulling up a chair opposite Dante. "The 'Ryan' in the letter is Ryan Foster. He’s an NYPD detective out of the 19th Precinct. Narcotics and organized crime file liaison."
Dante opened the folder. The first page was a photograph of Vanessa Turner. It was a copy of her driver’s license photo, but even in the harsh, sterile lighting of a government camera, her beauty was undeniable. She had large, expressive hazel eyes, a soft jawline, and an aura of quiet, resilient dignity that seemed entirely out of place in the file of a target.
"What’s his angle?" Dante asked, his eyes tracking her financial records.
"Her late husband was Thomas Turner," Marco explained, pointing to a section of the report. "An architect. He died in a car accident eighteen months ago. Before he went over the bridge, he had a massive gambling habit. He owed over two hundred thousand to an offshore sportsbook run by the Lucchesi family."
Dante’s eyes narrowed. The Lucchesis were a rival syndicate, a sloppy, violent crew that the Morettis had been slowly choking out of Manhattan’s northern territory for the last two years.
"Did the husband’s debt pass to her?" Dante asked.
"Legally? No," Marco said, spitting a bit of tobacco into a tray. "The debt died with him. But Ryan Foster was the detective who investigated the accident. He found the husband’s ledgers in the car before they went into evidence. He’s been using those records to extort Vanessa Turner for the last eight months. He’s threatening to turn the records over to the Lucchesi collectors if she doesn't comply with his... personal demands."
Dante’s fist clenched against the desk, the wood creaking under the pressure. "A cop playing collector for a dead man’s debt to feed his own twisted games."
"It gets worse," Marco continued. "Foster has a clean record on paper. Commendations, political connections. He’s the nephew of Judge Raymond Foster, who sits on the state supreme court. That’s why she hasn't gone to the authorities. She knows the system is rigged in his favor. If she makes a move, he uses his uncle’s leverage to threaten her custody of the kid."
Dante closed the folder with a sharp slam. He stood up, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the wet city streets. He thought of his own son, Leo, sleeping safely down the hall. He thought of Lily Turner, a seven-year-old girl who was so terrified for her mother that she had asked a mythical figure to make a corrupt cop stop calling.
"Where is she right now?" Dante asked.
"She’s at a restaurant called L’Avenue on the Upper East Side," Marco said, checking his watch. "Foster forced her to go to dinner with him tonight. Our scouts say she looked like she was walking to a firing squad when he picked her up."
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Dante reached into his drawer, pulling out a heavy, custom-made silver-plated Sig Sauer pistol. He checked the magazine with a practiced click, then slid it into the shoulder holster beneath his tailored charcoal jacket.
"Get the car, Marco," Dante ordered, his gray eyes flashing with a lethal, terrifying light. "We’re going to interrupt a detective’s dinner."
