Chapter 11 - The Reckoning in Ridgewood
The snow was falling again in Ridgewood, gentle, silent, coating the manicured lawns and Christmas decorations in a fresh, deceptive white.
The neighborhood was dead quiet. The news crews had been cleared out by a local police cruiser parked down the street, but as we approached the Varga residence, the cruiser was strangely absent. Victor had money; he had friends in the local township. He always knew how to clear the board before he went to work.
I left Lily in the safe custody of federal agents three blocks away, parked inside an unmarked surveillance van with Marisol, who sat watching the thermal imaging monitors of the Varga house.
"There are three heat signatures on the ground floor," Marisol told me through a wireless earpiece. "One in the kitchen, two in the living room. Victor’s private vehicle is parked in the detached garage. If you go through that door, Anna, the federal team is thirty seconds behind you. But the U.S. Attorney needs Victor to produce the documents on tape. We need his voice admitting the extortion."
"I don't care about the U.S. Attorney," I said, checking my reflection in the van's side mirror.
The cut on my lip was fading to pink. The purple bruise under my eye was now a mottled, sickly yellow-green. I pulled my dark coat tight around me, slipped the ledger into my interior pocket, and stepped out into the falling snow.
The front door of my childhood home was unlocked.
When I pushed it open, the heavy scent of burning paper and stale bourbon hit me instantly. The house was dead silent, save for the crackle of the hearth in the living room and the faint, familiar ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.
I walked into the living room.
My father was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, his knees pulled to his chest, his gray hair wild and disheveled, covered in gray ash. His hands were shaking so hard he couldn't hold the glass in his lap.
Sitting in my father’s favorite leather armchair, his long legs crossed casually, wearing a tailored charcoal overcoat, was Victor.
On the mahogany coffee table between them lay a silver Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol, sitting beside an open bottle of Macallan.
Victor looked up. When his eyes met mine, that familiar, patronizing smile touched his lips—the one he always gave me right before he reminded me who was in charge.
"Look at you," Victor said smoothly, his voice silky and completely untroubled. "The prodigal wife returns. And she didn't even bring my daughter."
My father didn't look up. He buried his face in his hands, letting out a dry, broken whimper: *"Anna... tell him. Tell him I did everything he asked..."*
I stood ten feet away, unmoving, my hands buried deep in my coat pockets. "Lily is somewhere you will never see her again, Victor."
Victor let out a soft, amused laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the bourbon bottle. "You always were dramatic, Anna. A little slap across the mouth and you think you’re in a crime drama. Did you really think some third-rate forensic accountant could take down Hale Global? I own the judges in this district. I own the banks. And most importantly..."
He leaned forward, tapping the mahogany table with an index finger.
"...I own your family. I bought your father for a song, Anna. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you how he begged me to pay off his bookies so the local mob wouldn't break Daniel’s legs in high school?"
"I know," I said quietly.
My father flinched as if he had been struck with a whip.
"You see?" Victor sneered, glancing at Tomas with utter contempt. "She knows you’re a coward, Tomas. She always knew. That’s why she came to you on Christmas Eve. She wanted you to be a man for once in your pathetic life. And what did you do? You told her to go home to Daddy."
Victor stood up. He was six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, carrying himself with the effortless physical confidence of a predator that had never been challenged. He took two steps toward me.
"The game is over, Anna. The feds have no paper trail that leads to me without Daniel’s testimony, and Daniel isn't going to say a single word. Because if he does, I ensure your father dies in federal prison. Now, you’re going to walk out that door, you’re going to get my daughter, and we’re going to board a private flight to Antigua tonight."
He reached out a hand to touch my cheek, his fingers curling slightly, ready to grip my jaw.
"And if I say no?" I asked, looking dead into his pale blue eyes.
Victor’s smile vanished. The mask slipped, revealing the black, bottomless malice underneath.
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"If you say no," he whispered, "I will shoot your father through the head right here in this living room, tell the police it was a home invasion by the people Daniel owed money to, and I will take Lily anyway. Who do you think the courts will believe, Anna? A hysterical, runaway wife? Or a grieving billionaire father?"
***
