Page 69 of Take Me Darkly

Chapter Twenty-One

Anton

* * *

Cornerstone Tower’s security suite occupied the northeast corner of the fourth floor, cold, quiet, and hyper-efficient. Floor-to-ceiling monitors lined the main wall, their feeds cycling continuously through the building’s external cameras and interior angles. On a Tuesday morning, the room was empty except for the two operators on duty and Zeke.

“Clear the room,” Zeke commanded, using his authority to grant us total privacy.

The moment the door clicked shut, I dropped into the leather chair beside him. “Walk me through it.”

Without a word, Zeke pulled up the archived footage. The timestamp in the corner read 08:47 AM. The east lobby entrance filled the screen—marble floors, glass doors, and the usual stream of morning tenants. And there, standing near the elevator bank, was Mac Owens.

I’d have recognized him without the dossier photo. He had perfected the art of being unmemorable—mid-fifties, average build, wearing an unpretentious gray jacket with the collar turned up. What caught my attention was the phone held casually in his palm, angled toward the reception desk. He captured his footage, then took a seat in the lobby lounge, watching the room like a spider on a web.

“He was there for eighteen minutes before security flagged him,” Zeke said, advancing the timeline.

“Eighteen minutes?” My voice dropped into a dark, lethal register.

“Yeah. Hale has already addressed it, and the desk attendants were disciplined. Owens was banned from the property years ago after his run-in with Alexander Stone. He should have been stopped at the threshold.”

“Did he interact with the staff?”

“He claimed he was meeting a tenant and gave a fake name,” Zeke reported. “When the desk pushed for verification, he switched tactics. He pulled out his phone and started showing the attendant photos.”

“Photos of Serena.”

“Grainy long-lens shots,” Zeke confirmed, his jaw tight. “Looks like paparazzi work from Italy.”

I watched Owens on the screen without comment, noting that he had been in the building for nearly thirty minutes before he was escorted out by an armed security guard. The footage showed him complying without resistance, pocketing his phone, and walking out with unhurried ease.

An aggressive journalist was easy to manage. An unhurried one was dangerous. Owens was a bloodhound, meticulously assembling a puzzle piece by piece until he had enough leverage to blow a story wide open. The fact that he possessed Serena’s face and had linked her to Cornerstone Tower—a location she had never visited—proved he was closing in on my world. But the fool had no idea what he’d unleash if he succeeded.

I was about to order a sweep of every external feed from the past two weeks when the live lobby monitor caught my attention.

Two women had just marched through the main glass doors.

They moved with singular, focused energy, their expressions promising hell for whoever stood behind the front desk. The taller woman was speaking rapidly, gesturing toward the elevators, while the second stood half a pace behind, arms crossed, ready for war.

I recognized the leader instantly. It was Madeleine Toussaint.

I had met Madeleine once, at the Met Gala. She was a woman who had evaluated powerful men her entire life and didn’t give a damn about their wealth. Silver-haired, striking, and clad in a tailored wine-colored coat that practically screamed Paris couture, she carried an oversized leather bag over her forearm like a weapon.

The woman beside her was younger, closer to Serena’s age. She had dark hair cut into a sharp, jaw-length bob, an olive complexion, and was dressed casually—dark denim, a simple cream top, and canvas shoes. Her dark eyes were steady, watchful, and intensely stubborn.

Zeke’s phone buzzed on the console. He checked the caller ID and looked up at me. “It’s the front desk.”

I watched the two women on the monitor for another moment. Madeleine had placed both hands flat on the desk, staring expectantly at the female desk employee who was holding a phone to her ear, presumably calling Zeke.

“Answer it and put it on speaker.”

Zeke tapped the screen. “Kristof.”

“Hello, Mr. Kristof. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have two women in the lobby who are requesting to speak with Mr. Romano.” She paused, her voice hesitant. It was clear that her hesitancy came from the scolding she likely got over Mac Owens earlier that morning. “They are, um…persistent. They presented passports as identification. One of them is a French national, Madeleine Toussaint, and the other is an Italian, Caterina Bianchi. Both claim to be personal acquaintances of⁠—”

“That’s enough,” I interrupted, anticipating her next words. The attendant went quiet. I didn’t need to hear the rest. Serena’s name was about to fall from her lips, and it was impossible to know who might be listening. The less times her name was said in public, the better. “This is Anton Romano. I know who they are. Give us five minutes, then send the women up to my office.”

I ended the call, meeting Zeke’s unblinking stare. He wore the exact look he saved for when he thought I was making a reckless call.