Chapter 2 - THE MAN WITH THE RED BIRD
Red Finch Protective Services had closed eighteen months earlier.
Officially.
Its owner, Patrick Leone, declared bankruptcy.
Most employees scattered into other security companies.
One former employee had not.
Gabriel Voss.
Forty-seven.
Former military mechanic.
Temporary contractor at several Marchetti industrial sites.
Photographs showed a red finch embroidered over the left chest of the old company uniform.
Dominic laid three pictures on the dining-room table.
Mia sat on Alina’s lap eating sliced bananas.
Nobody asked her:
Which man tried to hurt Mr. Vincent?
That would have been irresponsible.
Instead Dominic simply showed her ordinary photographs mixed with others.
“Do you remember any of these shirts?”
Mia pointed to the Red Finch logo.
“Bird.”
That was all.
Enough to corroborate one detail.
Not enough to identify a person.
Vincent insisted investigators handle the rest.
Gabriel Voss had recently performed subcontract mechanical work for one company tied to Marchetti Construction.
More important:
His brother worked for Frank Caruso.
Frank looked sick when he learned.
“I didn't know Gabriel was involved.”
Vincent watched him.
“You knew the brother?”
“Of course.”
“Did he have estate access?”
“Occasionally.”
Dominic slid another document forward.
“He serviced garage equipment eleven days ago.”
Frank covered his face.
That was likely how credentials or access information had been captured.
Still, investigators found something uncomfortable.
Frank had ignored a policy requiring temporary contractors to be supervised continuously.
“Why?” Vincent asked.
Frank stared at the table.
“Because we’ve used the family for years.”
“That's not policy.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Frank looked up.
“Because I trusted them.”
Vincent was silent.
The irony did not need explanation.
Everyone in his world spoke endlessly about loyalty.
The actual breach had entered through trust.
Gabriel Voss disappeared before police reached his apartment.
But his financial records told a story.
Three large payments from a consulting company called Kestrel Advisory.
Kestrel traced to a holding structure partially associated with one of Vincent’s own companies.
Marchetti Urban Development.
Vincent stared at the documents.
“Who controls Kestrel?”
Dominic answered:
“We're still tracing it.”
“Who inside Urban authorized payments?”
Rachel turned her laptop.
“Luca Marchetti.”
Vincent became completely still.
Alina knew the name.
Everyone did.
Luca was Vincent’s cousin.
Chief financial officer of Marchetti Urban.
Raised almost like a brother inside the family.
Frank whispered:
“No.”
Vincent did not react.
“Where is Luca?”
“New York.”
“For what?”
“Investor meetings.”
“Verify.”
Dominic left the room.
Alina began gathering Mia’s snack.
She did not belong here.
That became increasingly obvious.
Vincent stopped her.
“Alina.”
“Yes?”
“You and Mia should stay inside the main house tonight.”
Her expression changed.
“We have an apartment.”
“With a window overlooking the garage.”
“I understand.”
“No.”
She straightened.
Vincent was not used to that word.
“No?”
“You're worried someone may know Mia saw them.”
“Yes.”
“Then we will stay with my sister.”
“Where?”
Alina stared.
“You don't need her address.”
Dominic had reentered.
He almost smiled.
Vincent did not.
“I can put security there.”
“No.”
“Alina.”
“My daughter is already frightened.”
She lowered her voice.
“I am not putting armed strangers outside her aunt’s apartment.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“What would make you feel safe?”
The question surprised her.
Not:
This is what you're doing.
But:
What would make you feel safe?
“My sister lives in a secure building.”
“Police have my statement.”
“Your investigator has my number.”
“And nobody follows us.”
Vincent looked at Dominic.
Dominic nodded.
“We can arrange transportation and keep distance unless requested.”
Alina exhaled.
“Fine.”
Vincent looked offended by the word.
Apparently billionaires preferred gratitude.
She gathered Mia.
As they reached the door, Mia twisted around.
“Mr. Vin?”
Vincent froze.
Nobody called him that.
“Yes?”
She held up the wooden truck.
“You car broken.”
His face changed.
“Yes.”
“Get blue one.”
For the first time all day, Vincent laughed.
A real laugh.
“I'll consider it.”
That night Alina stayed at her sister Sofia’s apartment.
Mia slept almost instantly.
Alina did not.
At 11:30, her phone buzzed.
Vincent.
She stared.
Answered.
“Is Mia okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Silence.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
His voice changed.
“They found Gabriel Voss.”
Alina sat upright.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“In custody?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Another pause.
“He says he was paid to put the tracker on the SUV.”
Her stomach tightened.
“And the other thing?”
“He claims he didn't interfere with the vehicle.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don't know.”
That answer mattered.
Vincent continued.
“He says he was told someone else would handle the rest.”
“Who paid him?”
“He doesn't know the real name.”
“Kestrel?”
“Yes.”
“What was the purpose?”
“To track my route downtown.”
“Why?”
“He was told there would be a second team.”
Alina felt cold.
“What second team?”
“He doesn't know.”
She closed her eyes.
Then:
“Was your meeting downtown important?”
Vincent was silent.
“Yes.”
“How important?”
“I was meeting outside counsel and auditors.”
“About what?”
Another pause.
“Something in my company.”
The answer was deliberately vague.
Alina nearly let it go.
Then remembered Mia on the marble floor.
“Vincent.”
First name.
He noticed.
“What?”
“If someone risked hurting you to stop that meeting, I think it stopped being only your business.”
Silence.
Then Vincent said:
“Fourteen million dollars is missing from a city redevelopment project.”
Alina stopped breathing.
“Your money?”
“No.”
“Public money.”
That was worse.
He continued.
“I discovered invoices tied to demolition, remediation, and subcontractors that appear inflated or false.”
“Luca oversees the division.”
“And tomorrow morning I was supposed to approve an independent forensic review.”
She understood.
“If you didn't make the meeting…”
“The vote could be delayed.”
“How long?”
“Long enough for records to disappear.”
Outside Sofia’s apartment, snow began falling.
Alina looked toward Mia.
Three years old.
Sleeping beneath a pink blanket.
A child had looked through a rainy window and nearly stumbled into a fourteen-million-dollar fraud investigation.
Then Vincent added:
“There is one other thing.”
“What?”
“Kestrel Advisory’s registered mailing address.”
“Yes?”
“It used to belong to your husband.”
Alina stopped breathing.
“My what?”
May you like
“Your late husband’s repair shop.”
And suddenly the story was no longer only about Vincent’s car.
