Chapter 7 - The Trap in Queens
The media storm erupted within hours.
Cable news channels blasted headlines across the lower third of their screens: CATERING WAITRESS ACCUSED OF MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR EXTORTION. Paid commentators on conservative financial networks questioned the authenticity of Evelyn Foster’s journals, while paparazzi swarmed the perimeter of Romano Tower like locusts.
"They're trying to win the court of public opinion before we reach an arraignment," Marcus Vance explained during an emergency strategy meeting. "If they create enough reasonable doubt, Sinclair’s attorneys can delay the patent hearing until after Abigail delivers, giving them time to bury the clinical files."
"They're using Marcus," I said, pacing the living room, my hands resting on my aching lower back. "Marcus knows nothing about chemistry. He couldn't balance a checkbook, let alone understand molecular pharmacology!"
"It doesn't matter what he understands," Matteo said, standing by the panoramic window, his phone buzzing incessantly. "Sinclair bought a pawn willing to perjure himself. We need to dismantle him publicly before the preliminary hearing on Friday."
Just then, my personal phone chimed. It was an unrecognized number.
I hesitated, then swiped to accept the call. "Hello?"
"Abby?"
The voice sent a visceral wave of disgust rolling through my stomach. It was Marcus.
"How dare you call me," I hissed, signaling frantically to Matteo. Matteo immediately moved beside me, tapping the speaker button and motioning for Lev to begin tracing the call.
"Listen to me, Abby, you don't understand!" Marcus sounded manic, his voice trembling under heavy breathing. "Sinclair’s people... they didn't give me a choice! They showed up at my apartment in Florida. They threatened to pin an old drug charge on me if I didn't sign the statement!"
"You took half a million dollars, Marcus!" I cried, tears of fury burning my eyes. "You abandoned your child! You stole every dollar I had, and now you're trying to send me to prison to save your own pathetic skin!"
"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry!" Marcus stammered. "I have the duplicate contract they made me sign. It proves Sinclair suborned perjury! I want out, Abby. I’m back in New York. Meet me at our old storage unit in Queens. Come alone, or I’ll disappear with the documents, and you'll go down for extortion!"
The line went dead.
"It’s an ambush," Matteo said instantly, taking the phone from my hand. "Richard Sinclair knows his legal avenues are closing. He wants to draw you out of this building."
"The storage unit," I realized, my chest heaving. "That’s where we kept our old furniture. If Marcus has the subornation documents—"
"Marcus does not have documents," Matteo cut in, his hands gripping my shoulders, grounding me with his steady, unyielding strength. "Marcus is bait. Sinclair wants you isolated, Abigail. If something happens to you before Friday, the patent dispute dies with you, because there is no other living heir."
The cold, brutal reality hit me like a physical blow. Richard Sinclair wasn't just trying to protect his fortune in a courtroom.
He was trying to eliminate me.
"Then what do we do?" I whispered, looking up at him in sheer desperation. "Do we just let him smear my mother’s name on television?"
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Matteo looked down at me, his gaze blazing with a cold, terrifying calculation.
"We give Richard Sinclair exactly what he thinks he wants," Matteo said softly. "We let the beast walk straight into the slaughterhouse."
