CHAPTER 4: THE WRONG SIDE OF THE BARS
He begged me for mercy from his prison cell. I brought his new girlfriend to show him the true cost of betrayal.
The Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn is a grim, concrete monolith that stands as a stark reminder of what happens when the powerful finally run out of luck. It smells of floor wax, industrial bleach, and despair. It was a long way from the ten crystal chandeliers of the Pierre Hotel ballroom.
On the fourth day after our anniversary, I walked down the visiting corridor. I wasn't alone. Walking half a step behind me, looking nervous but immaculately styled in a muted beige trench coat, was Vanessa Hail.
Vincent was waiting behind the scratched Plexiglas partition. He looked terrible. They had taken his tailored suit and replaced it with a coarse, orange jumpsuit that made his sallow skin look almost green. The five o’clock shadow on his jaw was shot through with grey, and his hands were trembling as he picked up the gray plastic telephone receiver.
I picked up mine on the other side. Vanessa stood right next to me, her face a mask of polite indifference.
"Evelyn," Vincent gasped, his voice cracking through the static of the receiver. "Thank God. You have to get me out of here. The lawyers say the judge denied bail because of a 'flight risk' designation. They're treating me like a terrorist, Evie! My cellmate is an MS-13 enforcer. He told me he’s going to break my fingers if I don't give him my sneakers!"
"Hello, Vincent," I said, my voice steady and devoid of emotion. "You look well. The orange suits your complexion."
"Don't do this, please," he begged, his eyes darting frantically toward the guards at the door. "I'm sorry. The anniversary thing... it was a mistake. Vanessa and I... it was just a stupid fling. It didn't mean anything! I was having a mid-life crisis, Evie! You know how stress gets to me!"
Vanessa stepped into the camera frame of the Plexiglas window.
Vincent froze. His eyes widened as he looked at her. "Vanessa... baby... thank God you're here. Tell her! Tell her it was nothing! Tell her I love her and I just lost my mind!"
Vanessa looked at him, her lips curling into a cold, beautiful, devastating smile. She didn't pick up a phone. She just looked at him through the glass, her eyes devoid of the warmth, the adoration, and the submission she had performed for him over the last two years.
"She can't hear you, Vincent," I said into the receiver. "And even if she could, she wouldn't care. Vanessa works for me."
The words took a few seconds to process in his brain. I watched the realization hit him like a physical blow. He looked from Vanessa to me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
"What?" he whispered. "No... no, that's impossible. Vanessa... we met at the charity gala in London... you didn't even know her..."
"I paid her father's gambling debts in Monte Carlo, Vincent," I explained patiently, as if explaining a simple math problem to a child. "I curated her wardrobe. I gave her the dossier on your favorite whiskies, your insecurities, your political ambitions, and your favorite positions in bed. She was a bespoke fantasy, Vincent. Built by me, paid for by me, designed specifically to make you feel like a king so you would become arrogant enough to do something as spectacularly stupid as divorcing me in a room full of federal judges."
Vincent slammed his fists against the Plexiglas. The sound echoed loudly in the visiting room, causing a guard to take a step forward, his hand resting on his nightstick.
"You set me up!" Vincent screamed, his voice breaking through the receiver so loudly it distorted. "You ruined my life! Everything I worked for! The towers! The money! The legacy!"
"You ruined your own life, Vincent. You just did it on my schedule," I said. "You thought I was invisible. You thought that because I was the one making sure the catering bills were paid and the politician’s children got into private schools, I didn't have the stomach for the street. But you forgot where I came from. My father was a union foreman, Vincent. I knew how to bury a body before you ever learned how to open a Swiss bank account."
"I'll kill you," he whispered, his eyes wild with a manic, feral rage. "The second I get out of here, Evelyn. I don't care about the money anymore. I'll take a pipe to your head myself."
"You're not getting out, Vincent," I said softly. "This morning, the grand jury returned a thirty-two-count indictment for racketeering, wire fraud, grand larceny, and corporate tax evasion. And your good friend Yuri Borodin? He signed over his proxy shares to me at 9:00 AM. He also gave the DA's office the ledger for the 2018 concrete kickbacks. He threw you to the wolves to save himself."
Vincent’s hand slowly began to drop, the receiver slipping from his fingers. It dangled by its metal cord against the concrete wall, emitting a faint, tinny scratching sound of my voice.
"Enjoy the sneakers, Vincent," I said.
I hung up my receiver.
I turned and walked away down the long, gray corridor, the heavy steel doors unlocking before me and slamming shut behind me. Vanessa walked beside me, her heels clicking in perfect rhythm with my own.
As we stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, Vanessa looked at me. "What’s next, Evelyn?"
May you like
I pulled a pair of designer sunglasses from my pocket and put them on, shielding my eyes from the glare of the New York skyline.
"Next," I said, "we go to the office. We have a city to rebuild."
