Chapter 2 - THE ADDRESS THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST
Cassian refused the emergency room.
Delaney argued for six minutes.
Then stopped.
Not because she agreed.
Because the private physician who met them at a gated townhouse carried an ultrasound machine, an oxygen monitor, and the kind of irritation Delaney trusted more than politeness.
Dr. Elise Moreno examined Cassian in a downstairs study while Delaney sat near the door.
Two cracked ribs.
Deep bruising.
Mild concussion.
No pneumothorax.
No internal bleeding visible.
He needed observation.
He needed rest.
He needed to stop acting like pain was a personality.
Dr. Moreno said the last part herself.
Delaney liked her immediately.
Cassian did not.
“Anything else?”
he asked.
“Yes.”
The doctor pointed at the couch.
“Stay there.”
“I have work.”
“You were buried alive three hours ago.”
“Exactly.”
“I do not know what that means.”
“Neither do I.”
Delaney snorted.
Cassian looked at her.
She looked away.
The townhouse belonged to no one, apparently.
No family photographs.
No personal clothing.
Safe house.
Clean enough to feel temporary.
One of Cassian’s men—Milo—brought Delaney coffee and a paper bag containing a breakfast sandwich.
She stared at it.
“You eat?”
he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He left.
No pity.
Excellent.
Cassian watched her unwrap the sandwich.
“What?”
she asked.
“Nothing.”
“That is not nothing.”
“You haven't eaten since yesterday.”
Delaney froze.
“How do you know?”
“You looked at the food before the coffee.”
“That is detective work?”
“It is hunger.”
Her face heated.
She hated being read.
“Focus on your audit.”
Cassian’s expression shifted.
Business.
Safer.
He asked Milo for a laptop.
The device arrived with an encrypted drive.
Cassian opened files.
Delaney stayed because leaving seemed stupid.
Also because of her father.
Mostly because of her father.
“Show me Mercer Street.”
Cassian looked at her.
“You sure?”
“No.”
Good enough.
He opened the audit index.
RINALDI DEVELOPMENT GROUP — SPECIAL ACQUISITIONS REVIEW.
Eleven properties flagged.
Three apartment buildings.
Two warehouses.
Four mixed-use blocks.
A nursing home.
One church.
The list stretched across Chicago neighborhoods where people did not usually have attorneys waiting before eviction notices arrived.
Property 3:
1841–1867 MERCER STREET.
Delaney leaned closer.
“Whole block.”
“Yes.”
“Your company said redevelopment.”
“We had a preliminary option.”
“What does that mean?”
“We had agreements allowing purchase if the city approved zoning changes.”
“And?”
“City never did.”
Her mouth went dry.
“Then how did we get notices?”
Cassian clicked.
Relocation documents.
Rinaldi logo.
Signatures.
Tenants.
Amounts.
Nell Mercer.
$7,500 relocation payment.
Delaney laughed.
“We got three thousand.”
Cassian stopped.
“What?”
“Check amount.”
“Seven-five.”
“Mom deposited three.”
“Could she have—”
“No.”
Sharp.
Cassian nodded.
Did not finish.
He opened disbursement record.
$7,500 paid.
Check number.
Deposited to an account ending 0934.
Delaney knew her mother’s bank account.
Not those numbers.
“Not hers.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened.
“Someone substituted settlement accounts.”
“For every tenant?”
They checked.
Different accounts.
Same bank.
All opened within three months.
Cassian’s face went cold.
“Ghost accounts.”
“Then where did our three thousand come from?”
“Separate payment.”
“From?”
He searched.
Cashier check funded by another company.
MERCER COMMUNITY RELOCATION LLC.
Delaney stared.
“My name.”
“Your street.”
“Or my father.”
Cassian looked at her.
Company registration.
Manager:
ROYCE MERCER.
Her stomach dropped.
“No.”
Cassian opened incorporation date.
Six years ago.
Royce had been working with Rinaldi then.
“He made the relocation company.”
“Yes.”
“He stole the difference?”
“Maybe.”
Delaney stood.
Chair scraped.
“My father left when I was six and then spent years stealing from my mother?”
“We do not know that.”
“The company has his name.”
“Yes.”
“The agreement had his signature.”
“Maybe.”
“Stop making excuses for him.”
“I’m not.”
Cassian’s voice sharpened.
“I am refusing to convict a man based on documents we already know were forged.”
The words stopped her.
Right.
Annoying.
Right.
Delaney sat.
“What do you know about Royce?”
Cassian leaned back carefully because of his ribs.
“He joined Rinaldi Development fourteen years ago.”
“What before that?”
“City code enforcement.”
She stared.
“My mother told me he worked construction.”
“Maybe earlier.”
“Why would he hide code enforcement?”
“I don’t know.”
Cassian searched personnel archive.
ROYCE A. MERCER.
Former City of Chicago Department of Buildings field inspector.
Terminated after misconduct inquiry.
No criminal charges.
Delaney’s heart beat harder.
“Misconduct?”
File sealed.
Cassian requested internal legal archive.
A scanned newspaper clipping appeared.
CITY INSPECTOR ACCUSED OF ACCEPTING CASH FROM LANDLORDS.
Royce Mercer.
No photograph.
Delaney stared at her father’s name.
“He was dirty.”
“Accused.”
“Do you defend everyone?”
“No.”
Cassian looked at her.
“Only evidence.”
Fair.
The inquiry had ended without charges when a key witness recanted.
Royce lost his city job anyway.
Rinaldi Development hired him six months later.
“Why would you hire him?”
“My father.”
Cassian’s voice changed.
Past.
“Antonio Rinaldi ran the company then.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“No.”
Something in the tone ended the question.
Delaney did not push.
Cassian continued.
“When I took over five years ago, Royce was already senior acquisitions.”
“You knew him personally?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like him?”
“No.”
That almost made her laugh.
“Why?”
“He never looked impressed.”
“So terrible.”
“For my family? Unusual.”
Then Cassian’s face changed.
“He did one thing I respected.”
“What?”
“Refused to clear occupied buildings without signed relocation.”
Delaney stared.
“That is literally what happened to us.”
“I know.”
“Then he changed.”
“Or someone wanted his name on it.”
The laptop chimed.
Milo entered.
“We found the diggers.”
Cassian’s face hardened.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Police?”
Milo looked surprised.
Cassian looked at Delaney.
Her presence had apparently changed the expected answer.
“Bring counsel. Turn them over after statements.”
Milo nodded.
Then:
“Salvatore is telling captains you had a breakdown.”
Cassian laughed, then winced.
“What kind?”
“Paranoia. Says the audit made you unstable. Claims you attacked him near the docks and fled.”
Delaney stared.
“He buried you and then said you attacked him.”
Cassian looked almost bored.
“Family businesses.”
“Your family is exhausting.”
“You have met one uncle.”
“Enough.”
Milo continued.
“He called an emergency board meeting for noon.”
Cassian checked time.
Nine-thirty.
“What does he want?”
“To invoke incapacity.”
Delaney frowned.
“Can he?”
Cassian looked at her.
“Rinaldi Development is legitimate enough to have bylaws.”
“Comforting.”
“If controlling shareholder becomes incapacitated, interim authority passes to chief operating officer.”
“Salvatore.”
“Yes.”
“So he tried to bury you alive and legally take your chair before lunch.”
“That appears to be his schedule.”
“Efficient.”
Cassian smiled.
Then winced again.
Dr. Moreno shouted from the other room:
“I heard that.”
Delaney almost laughed.
Milo said, “We can move you.”
“No.”
Cassian closed the laptop.
“We go to the board.”
Delaney stared.
“You cannot sit upright without turning gray.”
“I can sit.”
“Badly.”
“I have done meetings with stab wounds.”
“Why do men say things like that as if women are supposed to be impressed?”
Milo looked at the ceiling.
Cassian stared at her.
Then:
“You're right.”
That surprised everyone.
“Dr. Moreno?”
Cassian called.
She appeared.
“Can I attend a ninety-minute board meeting if I remain seated?”
“No.”
He waited.
She sighed.
“If you insist, blood pressure monitored, no sedatives, no alcohol, and I come.”
Cassian nodded.
Delaney crossed her arms.
“You missed one condition.”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“You do not go alone.”
Silence.
Why had she said that?
She barely knew him.
Maybe because the last time he went somewhere with family, he ended in a grave.
Cassian studied her.
“Are you volunteering?”
Delaney thought.
Then:
“I’m the witness they don’t know survived.”
“They saw you.”
“They saw a muddy woman in a torn coat.”
“Salvatore may know who you are.”
“Then let him see.”
Cassian’s expression hardened.
“This is not a performance.”
“No.”
She pointed at the screen.
“My mother’s name is inside your stolen-property audit.”
Her voice shook.
“My father’s name is all over the fraud.”
She looked at him.
“I am already in it.”
Cassian was silent.
Then asked the question she had not expected from a man people called boss.
“What do you want?”
Delaney swallowed.
“To hear Salvatore explain why my mother’s home was stolen.”
“Then you come.”
No ownership.
No rescue.
Choice.
At eleven forty-five, Delaney entered Rinaldi Development headquarters wearing borrowed black trousers, a white shirt from Dr. Moreno, and her own ruined boots.
Cassian had offered shoes.
She refused.
The boots reminded her how she arrived.
The boardroom occupied the thirty-second floor.
Chicago spread beyond glass.
Salvatore sat at the head of the table.
Eight directors.
Three lawyers.
Two Rinaldi family members Delaney did not know.
When Cassian entered, every face changed.
Salvatore’s changed most.
He stood.
“You.”
Cassian lowered himself carefully into a chair.
“Disappointed?”
Silence.
Then Salvatore saw Delaney.
Recognition came.
Not from the docks.
From somewhere else.
His face went white.
“Mercer.”
Delaney stopped.
He knew her.
Not just the surname.
Her.
“How?”
she asked.
Cassian’s gaze sharpened.
Salvatore recovered too late.
“You look like your father.”
“No.”
Delaney stepped forward.
“You said my name before anyone introduced me.”
The room changed.
Salvatore looked at Cassian.
“Who is she?”
Cassian’s voice became cold.
“The woman who dug me out of the grave you put me in.”
Chaos.
People stood.
Lawyers spoke.
One director swore.
Salvatore laughed.
“Absurd.”
Delaney reached into her backpack.
Everyone tensed.
She removed the swollen notebook.
Opened to the page she had written before leaving the docks.
Time.
Weather.
Car.
Words.
Names.
“4:16 a.m. You said, ‘Deeper. I want him under before sunrise.’”
Salvatore stopped.
“4:23. Cassian told you the audit had a release instruction.”
Cassian looked at her.
She had documented it.
Of course.
Nursing training.
Chart facts while fresh.
“4:27. You said, ‘Think about the box, Cassian.’”
Salvatore’s face drained.
A lawyer asked:
“What box?”
Delaney looked at him.
Cassian did too.
Then Cassian answered.
“The box Royce Mercer stole from my father fourteen years ago.”
Delaney’s heart stopped.
She turned.
“What?”
Cassian looked at her.
He had not told her everything.
Not yet.
“The reason your father joined Rinaldi Development,” he said quietly, “was not because my father hired him.”
May you like
Cassian’s eyes stayed on Salvatore.
“Royce blackmailed his way in.”
