Chapter 3 - THE BAIT
I refused to become bait.
Alessandro hated that.
Good.
“I’m not sending messages to Rourke.”
“You already have a channel he trusts.”
“Then law enforcement can use it.”
“He’ll know.”
“Not my problem.”
“He is searching for Emma.”
I looked at Emma.
“Then protecting her is your priority.”
Alessandro stared at me.
“You helped expose her location before.”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“That is exactly why I don’t get to make the next risky decision for her.”
Emma looked at me differently after that.
Still not forgiveness.
But something shifted.
Federal investigators were already examining Rourke’s projects.
Emma had provided financial files eight months earlier.
Alessandro’s companies were cooperating.
The problem?
The evidence tied Rourke to shell vendors.
Not directly to attempts to intimidate Emma.
Then my records appeared.
Payments to me.
Instructions to follow her.
Burner messages.
Suddenly the “private investigation” looked more like witness targeting.
Sofia arranged for me to meet an Assistant U.S. Attorney and financial-crimes investigators.
No secret Vitali operation.
No kidnapping.
No men in warehouses.
Evidence.
I gave a statement.
Every embarrassing part.
Money.
Surveillance.
The gala.
The fake name.
Room 1520 was private and irrelevant unless it became relevant to Rourke’s intent.
Investigators asked whether Rourke instructed me to approach Alessandro.
“No.”
That mattered.
Then:
“Did he ask you to steal anything?”
“No.”
“Record protected conversations?”
“No.”
“Enter private property?”
“No.”
“What were you told?”
“Observe Emma Bell in public and report associations.”
Not legal enough to absolve.
Not necessarily criminal alone.
Then the investigator asked:
“Why did you stop?”
“She disappeared.”
“Why didn’t you contact police when your apartment was searched?”
I looked down.
“I was scared.”
“And you kept the money?”
“Yes.”
All $8,000.
Most gone to tuition debt and rent.
I offered repayment.
The investigator said:
“That is a civil issue unless someone establishes the money itself was criminal proceeds.”
Fine.
Truth first.
Then my doctor confirmed the pregnancy.
Six weeks, four days.
Normal early ultrasound.
Too soon for certainty beyond that.
I sent Alessandro one message through Sofia.
Pregnancy confirmed.
He replied:
Thank you for telling me.
Nothing else.
It hurt.
Good.
Consequences should not vanish because pregnancy exists.
Then Rourke contacted the burner again.
Need answer tonight.
Investigators asked whether I would participate in a controlled response.
This time Emma was in the room.
I looked at her.
“What do you want?”
She stared.
Then:
“I want him to stop hunting me.”
So I agreed.
Not because Alessandro ordered it.
Because Emma chose.
The response:
She’s back. Vitali building. Not sure why.
Rourke replied within four minutes.
Who has she met?
We waited.
Then:
Vitali himself?
I typed under instruction:
Maybe. Need time.
Rourke:
No time. Find the red file before she hands it over.
Emma went white.
“What red file?”
Alessandro asked.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Then she remembered.
Rourke’s former CFO kept an offline ledger.
Red binder.
Payments that never entered the corporate accounting system.
Emma had seen it once.
She thought it disappeared before she fled.
Rourke believed she had it.
She didn’t.
So who did?
The answer came from the last person I expected.
Liam.
He called me that night.
“Liz.”
“What?”
“Someone broke into the apartment.”
My chest froze.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“What did they take?”
Silence.
“Liam?”
“Your parents’ storage box.”
I stopped breathing.
My parents had died three years earlier in a highway accident.
Their documents lived in a locked box in Liam’s basement.
“Why would Rourke want that?”
Liam said:
“I don’t think they wanted your papers.”
“What?”
“There was something inside your father’s old tax folder.”
My father had been an accountant.
Not glamorous.
Small-business tax work.
Then Liam said:
“A red notebook.”
My knees nearly gave out.
My father had worked on contract for Rourke Development before he died.
I never knew it mattered.
Suddenly my parents’ accident no longer felt unrelated.
I hated myself for thinking it.
No.
Evidence first.
Always.
I asked:
“Was the notebook there before?”
“Yes.”
“You saw it?”
“Years ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought it was bookkeeping.”
Maybe it was.
Then Alessandro called.
Directly.
I answered.
“You heard?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sending security.”
“No.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Police first.”
Silence.
Then:
“Fine.”
Progress.
Police arrived before Vitali security.
The box was gone.
But Liam had done something important.
Two years earlier, while helping me sort my father’s files, he scanned most documents because some were water damaged.
Including pages from the red notebook.
He still had the backup.
The pages showed payments from Rourke Development to:
Judges? No.
Too dramatic.
Municipal consultants.
Permit intermediaries.
Union subcontractors.
Shell companies.
And one company connected to a fatal highway-maintenance contract.
The same road where my parents died.
My stomach turned.
But again—
connection was not causation.
May you like
The deeper truth was still ahead.
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