Page 49 of Fake Marriage Mafia Triplets

21

PIPER

The call comes through the internal line, which is the first thing that makes me believe it.

Two weeks have passed since Mila turned that screen toward me and counted three heartbeats, two weeks of holding a secret that gets heavier and more visible by the day, and I’ve spent the roughly two months since Nikita caught me learning the difference between the phones in this house. The cell in my pocket is for Maren, takeout, and the outside world. The handset mounted in the study connects to one thing only, the encrypted channel Platon uses when something has gone wrong and minutes matter, and it has never once rung for me. When it rings now, at three in the afternoon with Nikita downstairs and the house quiet, my stomach drops before I lift the receiver.

“Mrs. Rusakov.” A man speaks in clipped phrases and gives the weekly challenge Platon drills into everyone with access. “North window.”

“Clear water,” I answer, because that’s this week’s response, and I heard the pair from Platon’s own mouth on Monday.

“Sorokin reports that your brother left apartment 4B forty minutes ago. He told the doorman he was getting air. The two men across the hall lost him inside six blocks. Callum Voss is off the grid.”

Every part of it rings true. The doorman works for Nikita, and two of Platon’s men live across the hall from Callum on the fourth floor in Riverdale. Callum darkens his phone when he doesn’t want anyone to find him, the exact trick I taught him at a diner on Fordham Road when he was seventeen. The caller named Sorokin, Callum’s day-guard, without being asked. He knows Callum lives in apartment 4B and that Platon’s men occupy the unit across the hall. He knows the safe-house rotation runs on a seven-day cycle and opened with the correct half of this week’s challenge. Every detail lives inside the security team. Each correct answer makes the warning harder to dismiss.

“Where did the transit card register?” I ask.

“We tracked the security-issued transit card he uses to a marina off the old shipping access on the Sound. The marina sits on an old Rusakov route. We think someone’s using the family name to draw him, or draw you. A harbor camera picked him up beside a boat being readied to leave. We have fifty minutes before it clears the dock. Your detail will keep you in the vehicle until the second team clears the dock. We only need you close enough to identify Callum or anyone connected to him.” He pauses, then goes on. “I’ve alerted your detail. They’re pulling a vehicle now.”

I hang up and start the checks Platon drilled into me. I run cons backward for a living, so I know how a mark gets played, how you stack true things until the one lie rides in on the back of them.

I call Nikita first. It goes to voicemail on the second ring, which never happens. He always answers by the second ring, and in two months, he has never once let my call reach voicemail.

I try again, listening to it ring out again, and something cold starts crawling up my back but I make myself ignore it. The second try goes to voicemail too. I remember, distantly, that he mentioned a conference call this afternoon. Something about estate transfers, and Adrian walking him and Platon through the dissolution paperwork in the lower office, where my cell calls can’t reach them. I leave a message that comes out steadier than I am. “Callum’s missing. The internal line traced him to a marina on the Sound. I’m leaving with the secondary detail now. Call me the second you get this.” I text the coordinates to both of them before I leave the study.

I hurry down to the lower office and try the door. It’s locked for the conference call. I press the hard-wired emergency interrupt beside it, the one designed to cut through a secure call. The status light turns green—the system’s explicit signal that a principal inside has authorized me to proceed without waiting for the door. The caller said the boat leaves in fifty minutes, and several of those are already gone. No one opens, and protocol says the green light is my answer.

I call Platon, and his phone goes to voicemail too.

Then I do the second thing the drills built into me. I call the secondary-detail line Platon programmed into my phone himself, the separate number that reaches the dispatcher who tracks my escort, and a voice I’ve heard before picks up on the first ring. He confirms the alert word for word, repeats the marina coordinates, and pushes an authentication packet to my phone: two names, two ID photographs, and the plate of the black SUV pulling to the side entrance. An emergency deployment requires two authorized confirmations. I have both.

Nikita and Platon are behind a soundproofed door only a few feet away, heads down over the dissolution paperwork, and the timing still scrapes at me. But the green light records principal authorization, the second channel authenticated the alert, and every fact matches Callum’s real pattern. Standing here while my brother is off the grid near water with the Rusakov name attached to it is not an option. Whoever built this would have had to beat the system as well as know me.

I don’t go alone. I head for the side entrance where the secondary detail stages, the men assigned to me since the guard change after the gala, and two men are already pulling a black SUV around, exactly as the dispatcher promised. They’re both from the new external pool, faces I’ve seen for two weeks and can’t attach to a single conversation. The bigger one, the one who drives, has a neck like a bollard and a stillness that could be competence. The younger one holds my door.

“You have the coordinates?” I ask.

“Yes. Dispatch sent them with the alert,” the driver says. I check his face and the younger guard’s against the two photographs, then check the SUV’s plate against the packet. All three match, and I climb in.

The main gate opens only after a guard steps out, logs the vehicle, and radios us through. The camera’s red light stays steady. Nothing in the departure breaks protocol.

We head west along the expressway and then north toward the Sound. Forty minutes pass before the road narrows between container yards, shuttered fabrication shops, and chain-link fencing, until there’s nothing left but the dull gray water beyond it.

Nobody talks. In two months of riding in cars Nikita’s people drove, someone has always talked, a word about traffic, a check-in through a collar mic, or at least some small constant noise of men doing a job. These two make no noise at all. The younger guard keeps checking his phone and not typing anything, glancing at it and putting it away then glancing again, like he’s waiting for something.

At the marina gate, the driver leans out and keys a six-digit code into the panel without checking his phone or the console for it, from a code he carried before we left the house. Dispatch may have sent it with the coordinates. I move my hand closer to the phone in my pocket anyway and keep it there.

“Who gave you the gate code?” I ask.

“It came with the coordinates.” He keeps his attention on the road ahead instead of meeting my gaze in the mirror, and I leave my hand beside the phone.

The marina is too quiet. I know quiet. I’ve run cons in quiet rooms and I’ve learned the wrong kind has a texture, an emptiness that someone arranged. Someone arranged this one. A dozen slips cut into the water, and half the boats remain shrouded weeks after the season ended. No dockhand or harbormaster appears. The second team the caller promised isn’t waiting for us.

The SUV rolls to a stop at the end of the access road, the engine ticks in the silence, and Callum is nowhere. There is no sign of my brother standing on this dock in the cold, no huddled figure by the shrouded boats… No one waiting to be found. I understand, all at once and far too late, that there never was. Every true detail in that phone call was scaffolding around a single lie, and I fell for it.

I keep my hands off the door. The caller told me to stay in the vehicle until the second team clears the dock, but the second team isn’t here, and nothing about this has been cleared.

“You need to turn around,” I tell the driver, and I keep my voice firm and certain. “We’re leaving now.”