Chapter 2 - The Storm and the Ledger
The headlights of Marcus Reed’s SUV cut through the torrential rain, painting white arcs across the weed-choked stone pillars of Greystone Manor. The heavy vehicle ground to a halt near the front steps, spraying gravel against the rain-slicked side of Logan’s parked Bentley.
The door opened, and Marcus stepped out into the downpour, his massive frame protected by a black trench coat. He didn't waste time looking at the scenery. His eyes scanned the treeline, his right hand resting comfortably beneath his coat near his shoulder holster, before he sprinted up the steps and pushed open the heavy oak door Logan had left unlatched.
Inside, the air was warm, smelling of woodsmoke, wet wool, and old dust.
Nova and Luna were sitting by the great stone fireplace, wrapped in Logan’s heavy black coat. Nova was still clutching the stuffed rabbit with the patched belly, while Luna stared quietly into the orange flames, her fingers tracing the edge of the leather sketchbook resting in her lap.
Logan stood near the mantel, his arms crossed over his chest, his face carved from granite.
Marcus stepped into the living room, shedding water like a dark-feathered hawk. He dropped a heavy canvas duffel bag onto the hardwood floor.
“Got everything you asked for,” Marcus said, his voice a low gravel rasp. He glanced down at the two little girls, his fierce eyes softening by a fraction. “Dry clothes, thermal blankets, canned goods, a medical kit, and a encrypted burner phone. The roads out from the county line are flooding, but nobody followed me. I checked the turnpikes twice.”
“Good,” Logan said.
Marcus stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Boss... what is this? Who are they?”
Logan didn't answer immediately. He walked over to the armchair, picked up the leather sketchbook, and handed it to Marcus.
“Open it,” Logan said.
Marcus flipped through the pages. The damp pages crinkled softly. At first, his eyes scanned the rough sketches of furniture, then trees, then rooms. Then he stopped. A page showed a woman with sharp cheekbones, dark blond hair, and a haunting, familiar gaze.
Marcus looked up, his breath catching in his throat. “Elena.”
“Not a photograph,” Logan said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Drawn by her own hand. Dated four years ago. And the next page... dated two years ago. And the last one... six months ago.”
Marcus stared at the sketchbook, the blood draining from his weathered face. “That’s impossible. The car went off the cliff into the Hudson in March eight years ago. We searched for weeks. The state police found her dress snagged on a submerged pier piling. Uncle Vincent handled the memorial service while you were in the hospital recovering from that hit in Brooklyn.”
“Uncle Vincent handled everything,” Logan repeated, the words tasting like copper and poison in his mouth.
Nova looked up from the fire, her gray-green eyes locking onto Marcus. “Mommy said Uncle Vinnie was a bad man. She said if he ever found out where we lived in the woods, he would take us away.”
The room went absolute, terrifyingly cold. Even the crackling fire seemed to dim.
“Uncle Vinnie,” Logan whispered.
For eight years, Vincent Marchetti had been Logan’s rock, his advisor, the elder statesman who helped him consolidate power across the New York docks and the New Jersey trucking syndicates after his father and sister died. Vincent was the one who sat by his bedside, who managed the family accounts, who told Logan to harden his heart and focus on the empire because the world was a slaughterhouse.
And all the while, Vincent knew.
Or worse—Vincent was the architect.
“Marcus,” Logan said, his voice dropping into a register that made his oldest friend step back. “Find out every property, cabin, lease, and shell corporation registered in Columbia County and Dutchess County under Vincent’s name, or any front company connected to him over the last decade.”
“Boss, if Vincent kept her hidden... why?” Marcus asked, his fists clenching. “What was her leverage? What did she know?”
“She didn't know leverage,” Logan said, staring down at Nova and Luna. “She knew how Vincent laundered the port funds through the family’s estate holdings before our father died. She found the books. She tried to walk away. And Vincent didn't kill her in the river—he faked her death, locked her away in some forgotten cabin in the woods, and kept her breathing just out of reach.”
Logan knelt down beside Nova. The little girl looked at him without fear.
“Where was the blue house, Nova?” Logan asked gently, touching the edge of the sketchbook. “Where did you and your mom live before you came here?”
Nova pointed a small, smudged finger toward the northern window, out into the endless, stormy expanse of the Hudson Valley.
“ past the old mill,” she whispered. “Down the dirt road where the white gate is broken. In the woods where the deer sleep.”
Logan stood up, his hand sliding under his coat to grip the cold steel of his weapon.
“Marcus,” Logan said, his eyes burning with a cold, unstoppable fury. “Get the girls settled. Lock every door and window in this house.”
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“Where are you going?” Marcus demanded.
“To check on the family,” Logan said, a terrible smile touching his lips. “It’s time to see what Uncle Vincent has been keeping in the woods.”
