Chapter 3 - Someone Wanted Natasha Gone
Simon took the envelope from his guard.
Inside were twelve photographs.
Natasha leaving the restaurant.
Natasha entering the Gambino building.
Natasha standing beside the twins’ stroller in Central Park.
Natasha buying coffee.
Natasha froze.
“That was yesterday.”
Simon’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“Who had these?”
“Guy named Eric Malone,” the guard answered. “Freelance investigator.”
“Who hired him?”
“He won’t say.”
Simon turned toward the elevator.
Natasha stepped in front of him.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Move.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Have a conversation.”
“With how many broken bones?”
“That depends on how cooperative he is.”
“You’re not killing someone because he photographed me.”
Simon stared down at her.
“You think this is about photographs?”
“What else would it be?”
“My sons were photographed.”
Natasha stopped.
Simon held up one image.
The twins were clearly visible.
“Their schedule. Their routes. Their security.”
His voice dropped.
“That makes this a threat.”
Natasha understood.
“Then call the police.”
One guard actually laughed.
Simon looked at him.
The laughter stopped.
“You really are new here,” Simon said.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He walked past her.
Natasha followed.
“Simon.”
He stopped.
It was the first time she had used his first name without thinking.
“Find out who hired him,” she said. “But don’t become the reason your sons grow up afraid of you.”
Simon stared at her for several seconds.
Then entered the elevator.
“Anthony.”
“Yes, boss?”
“No permanent damage.”
Anthony blinked.
“Understood.”
The doors closed.
Natasha exhaled.
Teresa appeared behind her.
“You just negotiated a man down from murder.”
“I’m beginning to understand my job description is flexible.”
Two hours later, Simon returned.
“His name is Victor Dane.”
Natasha frowned.
“Who?”
“My cousin.”
Simon placed a photograph on the table.
A handsome man in his forties stood beside Simon at a charity gala.
“He thinks I’ve become weak.”
“Because of your children?”
“Because I’m changing things.”
“What things?”
Simon hesitated.
Natasha folded her arms.
“You hired me on the condition I don’t ask questions. Fine. But someone is following me because of your business. That makes it my business.”
Simon didn’t argue.
“I’ve been shutting down parts of the organization.”
“What parts?”
“Drugs. Trafficking. Anything involving children.”
Natasha studied him.
“You expect me to congratulate you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Simon’s jaw tightened.
“My father built an empire where fear was currency. I inherited it.”
“And now?”
“Now I have two sons.”
He looked toward the nursery.
“I don’t want them inheriting the same thing.”
Natasha softened slightly.
“Victor does.”
“Yes.”
“So he wants you removed.”
“Yes.”
“And now he thinks I’m your weakness.”
Simon looked directly at her.
“He’s wrong.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow.
“You answered that suspiciously quickly.”
“He thinks you’ve made me sentimental.”
“Have I?”
“No.”
A baby cried from the nursery.
Simon immediately turned.
Natasha smiled.
“Terrifying.”
“Don’t.”
They entered the nursery together.
Over the next month, security doubled.
Natasha hated it.
The twins improved dramatically.
They slept longer.
Their shaking episodes became less frequent.
Simon learned every technique she taught him.
One afternoon, Natasha entered the nursery and stopped.
Simon was sitting on the carpet.
Both twins were beside him.
He was tapping the familiar triplet rhythm against the floor.
One baby laughed.
Natasha leaned against the doorway.
“You’re getting good.”
Simon looked up.
“I had an excellent teacher.”
“That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Then his phone rang.
Simon answered.
His expression darkened.
“What happened?”
A pause.
“When?”
Another pause.
“Lock the building down.”
Natasha straightened.
Simon hung up.
“What?”
“The security system was accessed remotely.”
“By Victor?”
“We don’t know.”
“What did they access?”
Simon looked toward the twins.
“The nursery cameras.”
Natasha’s blood went cold.
Simon picked up both babies.
“Pack a bag.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere nobody knows about.”
“Simon—”
“Natasha.”
His voice was different.
Not commanding.
Afraid.
“Please.”
That single word made her stop arguing.
Twenty minutes later, they were in an armored SUV leaving Manhattan.
And three blocks behind them, a black sedan pulled into traffic.
May you like
Following.
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