Chapter 2 - THE GHOST OF TRIBECAS PASTWhile the surgical team wheeled Hannah down the sterile corridor toward the operating theater, I stood in the corridor like a statue carved from rage.
Ryan handed me a heavy, encrypted satellite phone. “I ran the metadata on the text message, Jack. It didn’t come from a burner. It came from the private server at the Callahan Tower penthouse—the one Julian took over after your “retirement.””
“He wanted me to know,” I said coldly, wiping a drop of blood from my palm. “Julian thinks because I stepped down from the board, I forgot how to run a war. He thinks a pregnant woman hiding in a Brooklyn walk-up was an easy target to break me.”
“She wasn't just hiding from him,” Ryan added, his expression grim. “I had my guys check her bank statements from the last three months. She was selling her jewelry, Jack. Her mother’s pearls. Her designer bags. She didn't spend a dime of your settlement money because she was terrified that tracing the funds would lead Julian right to her door. She was starving herself so she could pay cash for prenatal visits at a free clinic in Queens.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Hannah—fierce, proud, aristocratic Hannah—had been living on pennies in a dangerous borough, eating out of cheap diners, and hiding our child in the shadows because she thought protecting me meant keeping my baby a secret.
“Where is Julian right now?” I asked.
“The annual Manhattan Real Estate Gala at the Plaza,” Ryan replied, checking his watch. “He’s the keynote speaker. Celebrating his new acquisition of the Brooklyn waterfront docks—the very docks you built from the ground up.”
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I turned away from the ICU doors, my coat billowing behind me like the wings of a dark angel.
“Cancel the car, Ryan,” I said softly, cracking my knuckles. “We’re walking.”
