Chapter 11 - THE AUCTION HOUSE OF GHOSTS
The interrogation room at the federal plaza was sterile, gray, and freezing.
Special Agent Catherine Vance sat across the metal table, sipping black coffee from a paper cup.
Dominic sat beside me, his broken arm set in a clean white cast, wearing a plain gray prison jumpsuit.
He had refused to speak for six hours.
Not a single word.
He sat with his eyes closed, waiting for them to file the racketeering charges.
Agent Vance set her coffee down with a deliberate tap.
“Dominic Russo,” she said, her voice dry.
“Three counts of federal conspiracy.”
“Two counts of weapons trafficking.”
“And eighty million dollars in stolen maritime cargo currently burning at the bottom of Brooklyn Harbor.”
Dominic didn't open his eyes.
“You’re going away for the rest of your natural life, Dominic,” she added.
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the metal table.
“He didn't blow up that ship, Agent Vance,” I said.
Agent Vance shifted her sharp gaze to me.
“Miss Harrison.”
“The civilian caught in the crossfire.”
“You’ve been living with a mafia boss for eight months.”
“In the eyes of the law, you’re an accessory to every crime committed in that penthouse.”
“I’m an appraiser,” I replied calmly.
I reached into my pocket and placed the waterproof plastic case in the center of the table.
Agent Vance looked at the tiny black card inside.
“What is this?”
“That is the complete financial ledger of Alberto Bianchi and Richard Vance,” I said.
Agent Vance froze.
The coffee cup remained suspended half an inch above the saucer.
“My father’s name was Richard Vance,” she whispered, her voice tightening.
“I know,” I said.
“He was the federal prosecutor who covered up the 1996 fire at my grandfather’s estate.”
The room went deathly silent.
Dominic’s eyes snapped open.
He looked at me, stunned.
“Your father wasn't just dirty, Agent Vance,” I continued, my voice unyielding.
“He was Gabriel Bianchi’s business partner.”
“And tonight, Gabriel is hosting a private auction at the Metropolitan Club on 60th Street.”
Agent Vance looked down at the plastic case.
Her hands, usually steady as iron, trembled slightly.
“What are they auctioning?” she asked hoarsely.
“The bearer bonds from the Harrison trust,” I answered.
“And the political blackmail files that kept your father and the Bianchi family out of prison for thirty years.”
Agent Vance picked up the card.
She slid it into a secure forensic tablet on her desk.
Her screen lit up with thousands of authenticated bank transfers, police reports, and surveillance photographs.
Her father’s signature was on eighty of them.
Tears welled in the seasoned agent’s eyes.
She stared at the screen for two long minutes.
Then she looked up at Dominic.
“Vincent survived the harbor blast,” Agent Vance said quietly.
Dominic’s jaw clenched.
“Where is he?”
“He arrived at the Metropolitan Club an hour ago,” she said.
“He’s using Gabriel’s private security detail to secure the auction room.”
She leaned across the table, sliding a pair of keys toward Dominic.
“The federal government cannot officially raid that club tonight,” Agent Vance said.
“Three sitting senators and the deputy director of the FBI are inside that ballroom.”
“If we kick the door in with badges, the files will be shredded and incinerated before we reach the second floor.”
Dominic picked up the keys.
He unlocked his own handcuffs with a clean metallic click.
“You want us to go in off the books,” Dominic deduced.
“I want my father’s name wiped from the history of this department,” Agent Vance said, her eyes burning with cold rage.
“And I want the Bianchi syndicate eradicated.”
She turned to me.
“Can you authenticate the master trust in front of the buyers?”
“I’m the only living person with the biometric key to Charles Harrison’s estate,” I replied.
Dominic stood up, rolling his shoulders despite the cast on his arm.
“We need clothes,” Dominic said.
“And we need invitations.”
Agent Vance opened a drawer and produced two gold-embossed envelopes.
“Bespoke black tie is waiting in the executive suite down the hall,” she said.
Dominic turned to me, offering his good hand.
I took it.
His grip was warm, solid, and absolute.
“One last job, Mia,” he whispered.
May you like
“Not a job, Dominic,” I replied, looking into his gray eyes.
“Justice.”
