Read Chapter 7: The Missing Man

The lock on Luca Moreau’s apartment door had already been drilled clean through. Jack nudged it open with his elbow, the wood groaning on splintered hinges. Inside, the place looked like a paper shredder had thrown up. Drawers yanked from their runners, cushions slit open, foam like snowdrifts across the parquet floor. A bookshelf lay on its side, spines cracked.

Sophie stepped in behind him. Her fingers hovered near her mouth. “Jesus. They didn’t just look for something. They wanted to make sure they didn’t miss it.”

Jack crouched, ran a hand through a pile of shredded documents. “They tore this place apart looking for whatever Emile has.” He stood, moving deeper. The kitchenette was worse—cupboard doors dangling, rice and pasta scattered like debris. In the bedroom, the mattress was gutted, springs exposed.

“Anything personal left?” Sophie asked from the hallway.

“A toothbrush would be nice,” Jack muttered. He opened the wardrobe. Empty hangers, a few crumpled T-shirts, a pair of scuffed boat shoes. Luca had lived light. Professional drivers didn’t pack much; they had other people to do it. But something caught Jack’s eye—a small side table next to the stripped bed, its drawer open and empty. Except the bottom of the drawer wasn’t flush. It sat a few millimeters proud on one side.

Jack pulled the drawer fully out, tipped it over. A tight rectangle of cardboard fell loose, then a thin leather-bound notebook, no bigger than his palm.

“Sophie.” His voice low.

She was beside him in a second. He flipped the notebook open. Page after page of cramped, tidy handwriting—not Luca’s, if the race notes he’d seen in the garage were anything to go by. This was engineering script. Tiny, precise, full of symbols.

“Emile’s,” Sophie said, reading over his shoulder.

The numbers meant nothing at first. Timestamps, circuit abbreviations, lap sectors. Then a page with a single column of figures and the letters *A.G.* underlined twice, circled, with question marks scratched around it.

“A.G.,” Jack repeated. “That mean anything to you?”

Sophie shook her head slowly. “Not yet.” She photographed the page with her phone. “Give me time.”

A footstep creaked in the hall. Jack shoved the notebook into his jacket pocket, and they both turned toward the doorway. A thin woman in a floral housecoat stood there, a rolled newspaper in her hand. She looked from Jack to Sophie, unimpressed.

“You here for the rat, or the tenant?” Her accent was Monégasque, thick and clipped.

“The tenant,” Jack said. “We were friends of Luca Moreau.”

The woman’s mouth tightened. She stepped into the room, surveyed the wreckage without a flinch. “You’re the second group this week. First was the polite one, asked questions. Then the rude ones.”

“Who were the rude ones?” Sophie asked.

“Didn’t ask their names. Didn’t wait for an answer before they started pulling my hallway apart.” She crossed her arms. “Three men. Suits. Fat wallets, heavy watches. Looked like money that didn’t want to be looked at.”

“And the polite one?” Jack said.

“The brother. Emile.” She said his name with a soft fondness. “Nice boy. Skinny. Always carrying a laptop bag too heavy for him. He came three days after the funeral.”

“What did he ask about?”

The neighbor tilted her head. “You police?”

“Journalist,” Sophie said smoothly. “Investigative. We're looking into the accident.”

The woman sniffed, deciding she believed them enough. “He wanted to know if anyone had visited Luca in the weeks before the crash. Anyone unusual. Seemed jumpy. Wouldn’t sit down.” She nodded at the gutted sofa. “Even then it was still in one piece.”

“Did you tell him anything useful?”

“Maybe. I told him Luca had a guest the night before his death.” Her voice dropped. “A woman. Late. She parked a black car out front—not a rental, not a taxi. Stood in the rain two minutes before coming up. Luca let her in. She stayed an hour.”

“Description?”

“Tall. Short fair hair. Wore a dark coat with the collar up, even indoors—that’s what I remember. It was warm that night. But she kept it on.” The neighbor shrugged. “I told Emile. He went pale, wrote it down, thanked me, and left. Haven’t seen him since.”

Jack traded a glance with Sophie. A woman. Short fair hair. In Monaco, that could be half the champagne-sipping crowd along the harbor.

“Anything else about the notebook?” Sophie asked, testing. “Emile mention any records, paperwork?”

“He asked if Luca kept a safe. I told him if Luca had a safe, he never told me, and Luca told me everything.” Her eyes glistened briefly, then hardened. “He was a good boy. Too much money pressure, but a good boy. He didn’t deserve to die in that car.”

“No,” Jack said quietly. “He didn’t.”

The neighbor looked Jack up and down, as if sizing him. “You’ve got his number, don’t you? On the car.”

Jack’s pulse ticked. The number 23. Luca’s number. His number now.

“You’re the new driver,” she said. “The replacement.”

“Yes.”

She studied him a long moment. “Watch yourself. Luca thought he was untouchable too.” She turned and left without another word, her slippers shuffling down the hallway.

Sophie exhaled. “Well, that was cheerful.”

Jack pulled the notebook back out. He flipped to the A.G. page again. “This is time-stamped dates, circuit names in shorthand—Monza, Suzuka, Bahrain. And amounts. Big amounts.” He ran his thumb down the column. “Someone bet big on Fenice races. Luca’s races.”

“A.G. was Luca’s bookmaker?”

“Maybe.” Jack closed the notebook. “Or A.G. is the one taking bets, and Luca was paying off losses. Marco said Luca owed him. But Marco isn’t A.G.”

“Why would Emile have the records?”

“Because Emile was going to figure out who really killed his brother.” Jack pocketed the book again. “And someone got to Emile before he could.”

They left the apartment, stepped over the splintered door frame. Outside, the Monaco sun was blindingly bright, the sea glittering pastel blue—a kingdom of wealth and secrets and very few actual answers.

“We need to find Emile before the suits do,” Sophie said as they crossed the street toward her hire car.

“Or before Marco does.” Jack checked his phone—a missed call from Henri, no message. He stared at the screen a moment, then put it away. “I have another problem. First practice is tomorrow. If I call in the notebook now, I’m not outqualifying anyone from the pit wall.”

“You still racing after this?”

“I have a debt, Sophie. Two of them, now.”

She started the engine. “And the third debt?”

Jack looked across at her. “Three?”

“The truth.” She pulled into traffic. “That one’s mounting up too.”

He watched the gleaming casino facade slide by. Somewhere in this city was an engineer in hiding, possibly dead already, holding records that could burn the whole house down. And somewhere, a tall woman in a dark coat had walked into Luca Moreau’s life the night before he died.

“A.G.,” Jack said again, tasting the initials. “Aethel Group?”

Sophie glanced at him sharply. “Arnaud’s company?” She considered it. “Headquartered in Zurich. They sponsor Fenice. But why would Arnaud’s initials be in a gambling ledger?”

“Because ‘A.G.’ might not be initials,” Jack said slowly. “It might be short for something else in German. *Aktiengesellschaft*. Corporation.” He turned the thought over. “Or it’s just a code.”

No answers came. Traffic slowed in the swarm of afternoon shoppers. Jack’s phone vibrated—a text from no number he recognized.

*Emile is in the hills above Nice. Alone. He thinks you’re working for them. If you want to talk before he disappears for good, come alone. No team. No police. -M.B.*

Sophie read it over his shoulder, frowning.

“Marco wants me to run errands for him now?”

“Marco wants you out of the way while his men finish looking,” Sophie said. “Or—he genuinely wants his transaction records before they disappear.”

Jack stared at the message. The hills above Nice was an hour’s drive, winding mountain roads with no CCTV, no witnesses. Exactly the kind of place a debt collector would choose to have a quiet word.

But it was also the only lead Emile had left.

“Drop me back at the hotel,” Jack said. “I need a car that doesn’t have a team tracker on it.”

Sophie gripped the wheel tighter. “You’re actually going?”

“The man thinks I’m coming to hurt him.” Jack put his phone away. “I need him to see my face and believe I’m not.”