Chapter 8 - THE MIRAGE OF THE DEAD"Mrs. Rossi," Agent Vance said sharply, her hand drawing her Sig Sauer as she scanned the perimeter monitors. "Do you know that man?"
Elena couldn't speak. Her lungs felt as though they had collapsed, every molecule of oxygen sucked out of the room. Her husband—the man whose funeral she had wept over, whose ghost she had mourned every single night while holding her empty pillows—was standing in the lobby of a mafia fortress in Manhattan.
"He's... he's my husband," Elena finally choked out, her hands trembling so violently that Katia let out a startled whimper in her arms. "David. But he's dead. I buried him."
Vance’s eyes narrowed into slits of tactical calculation. "In our world, Mrs. Rossi, people don't just come back from the dead unless they're ghosts, or unless they were never really dead to begin with. Stay in the panic room."
"No," Elena said, stepping back, the maternal instinct overriding her shock. "No, if he's here, he knows about Katia. He knows I'm here. Vance, call Matteo. Now."
Before Vance could reach her encrypted radio, the secure elevator chime dinged.
The doors slid open.
David Rossi stepped out into the penthouse foyer. He looked older, his face sharper, a faint scar running along his jawline that hadn't been there the day his car went off the bridge, but his eyes—those familiar, piercing blue eyes—were unmistakable.
He stopped, his gaze sweeping over the luxury of the Volkov penthouse before landing squarely on Elena standing by the living room sofa with a baby in her arms.
"Hello, Elena," David said, his voice smooth, calm, and utterly chilling. "It's been a long time."
Elena froze, clutching Katia against her chest like a shield. "You're dead. I saw the police report. I identified the body."
David let out a low, humorless chuckle, walking slowly across the white marble floor. He didn't look like a grieving widower; he looked like a man who held all the cards in a rigged game. "The police report said a body was found in the car, Elena. It didn't say it was mine. When you live in my line of work—financial auditing for international syndicates—you sometimes have to stage an exit before your employers decide to cash you out permanently."
"Your line of work?" Elena repeated, horror dawning behind her shock. "You were an accountant for the Moretti family, weren't you? All those late nights, all those secret accounts—you weren't working for corporate firms."
"I was working for the winning side," David smiled coldly, taking another step forward. "Until Matteo Volkov wiped out half my associates. Then I had to stay underground... until I found out my sweet, grieving widow had taken up residence in the penthouse of the most dangerous man in America, nursing his illegitimate brat."
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Vance raised her pistol, aiming straight at David's chest. "Stop right there or I put a bullet through your heart."
David didn't even look at the gun. He kept his eyes locked on Elena, a dark, venomous satisfaction twisting his features. "Drop the gun, agent. Because if you kill me, you kill the only leverage that keeps Matteo Volkov from tearing this city apart to get his precious family back."
