Page 87 of Brox Boar

“Mr. Boar,” he says immediately. His voice lacks its usual control, breath slightly uneven. “You called me earlier. I apologize–I wasn’t able to return your call right away.”

I stop in front of the elevator and press the button, watching it light up. “Brox and I went to Chicago,” I say calmly. “We found our roots.”

Silence stretches across the line. “Are you sure?” he asks.

I lift my eyes to the numbers above the elevator doors, tracking their slow ascent. “Completely. Brox and I were kidnapped.”

“I–” He pauses, recalibrates. “I’m sorry to hear–”

“Keep your apologies,” I cut in. “And let me finish. Our father’s name is Lupu Boaru. Someone made a concerted effort to erase him from our lives.”

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. I step inside and turn to face the mirrored wall as they close. My reflection looks back at me–controlled, distant, fully alert.

“Lupu Boaru,” Waddington repeats quietly, probably taking notes. “Eastern European.”

“Yes. Romanian.” I press the button for the ground floor. The lift begins its descent. “From here on, you continue the investigation. We want everything.” I pause deliberately, leaving our Rex’s name. He should find him on his own.

“With this information,” Waddington says carefully, “Valentino’s will no longer stand on secure footing. If the estate was built through unlawful activity, or if the beneficiaries were retained through coercion, the document becomes contestable. Add kidnapping, falsified guardianship, and manipulated identities, and it collapses.”

I release a slow breath. “So it’s void.”

“Not automatically,” he replies. “But close enough that it won’t survive a formal challenge—provided everything you’ve given me is accurate.” He hesitates, then hurriedly amends himself. “Which, of course, we will investigate thoroughly on our end.”

“You do that, Waddington.” The elevator passes the halfway mark, cables murmuring overhead.

“Do you want Alesso informed?” he asks.

“No.” The answer comes instantly. “Not yet. Don’t tell him anything. I’ll let you know when that call happens.”

“Understood,” Waddington says.

The elevator slows. I adjust my grip on the cell, straighten my shoulders.

The line goes dead.

The doors slide open to the lobby leading into the club–high ceilings, polished black marble, sound absorbed into quiet luxury. I step out, slip the cell back into my pocket, and move forward.

Let’s see what tonight brings.

CHAPTER 23

BROX

The text hits my cell while I’m crossing the main floor.

‘The mayor is here. He wants you. It looks official.’ Sol.

I stop long enough to shoot a reply back. ‘Shit. Act as if you don’t know the mayor.’

I lift my head and look toward the entrance. There he is.

The mayor stands just inside the threshold, posture stiff, flanked by a small procession that moves with him in formation. Four old men and two women. Most of the men are overweight, bellies pushing against suits that haven’t fit properly in years, fabric pulled tight over strain and self-importance. Buttons look ready to surrender. Their badges hang clipped and visible, catching the light each time they shift. Clipboards tucked to chests.

City inspectors.

The women stand out immediately. Mid forties, maybe older. Shirts buttoned high, collars tight, below the knee skirts, mouths thinner than necessary. Their eyes sweep the room with sharp disapproval, missing nothing. These are the ones who never overlook, never excuse, never soften.

They move as a unit, shoulders squared, expressions tight, walking through the club as if the space exists solely for judgment. Not for sound. Not for fun. Every surface earns a look. Every shadow invites suspicion. A glass left on a ledge gets a note. A scuffed corner becomes an issue.