Chapter 13 Piano Wire Strangulation
# Chapter 13: Piano Wire Strangulation
Morning broke with the sound of my burner phone chiming incessantly. The video had hit its targets. Five journalists had received our evidence, and three had already run with the story. By 8 AM, the footage of Lucas Albert assaulting "an unnamed young woman" while his father and Winton Pierce orchestrated the cover-up was trending across social media platforms.
"It's working," I told Elliot, who was monitoring news channels on his tablet. "They can't bury this."
He nodded, eyes fixed on a CNN broadcast where a somber anchor was describing the "disturbing footage allegedly showing Lucas Albert, son of billionaire Albert Friedrich, in a violent assault." The segment carefully avoided showing the most graphic portions but included the damning conversation afterward between Albert and Winton.
*They'll deny everything,* Elliot wrote. *Claim the video is fake.*
"Let them," I replied. "We have the forensic metadata to prove its authenticity. And this is just the opening salvo."
The media frenzy was unfolding exactly as I'd hoped. Reporters were camped outside Albert Tower, the stock price of Albert Industries had plummeted 15% in pre-market trading, and social media was ablaze with hashtags like #AlbertAssault and #PrivilegedPredators.
But amidst the chaos we'd created, a more personal concern emerged. My secure email pinged with a message from a contact in hospital administration: Lucas Albert's condition had stabilized overnight. He was awake, communicating, and under heavy security.
"This complicates things," I murmured. "If Lucas recovers fully, he becomes a liability to Albert and Winton. They can't risk him talking."
Elliot's expression darkened as he wrote: *They'll move him as soon as he's stable. Private facility where they control access.*
He was right. We had a narrow window to act if we wanted to leverage Lucas's vulnerability—to potentially turn him against his father or extract a confession while he was still within reach.
"We need to get to him," I decided. "Today, before they transfer him."
Elliot looked skeptical, writing: *Hospital security will be tight. Albert's private guards too.*
"Then we'll need a distraction." I pulled out my laptop, accessing the hospital's system through the backdoor my contact had provided. "Lucas is in the VIP wing, sixth floor, heavy security at all access points."
I studied the floor plans, looking for weaknesses. "There's a service elevator that connects to the kitchen. Staff use it to deliver meals to VIP patients."
Elliot considered this, then wrote: *Too obvious. They'll be watching food.*
Advertisement
"Not the food," I corrected. "The piano."
His eyebrows raised in question.
"There's a baby grand in the VIP lounge—hospitals like to create a 'luxury hotel' atmosphere for wealthy patients. According to the maintenance schedule, it's due for tuning this afternoon."
A slow smile spread across Elliot's face as he understood my plan. He was, after all, a pianist himself.
Three hours later, Elliot entered Presbyterian Hospital dressed in the uniform of Steinway Professional Services, carrying a legitimate-looking credential badge and a case of piano tuning tools. I monitored his progress through the micro-camera disguised as a button on his jacket, watching from my position in a coffee shop across the street.
"Security checkpoint ahead," I warned through the tiny earpiece he wore. "Remember, you're Julian Meyer from Steinway. You tune this piano every six months."
I watched as he presented his credentials to the security guard, who barely glanced at them before waving him through. The VIP floor's reception desk proved slightly more challenging, with a nurse checking his name against a schedule, but our advance work had ensured he was expected.
"Piano's in the family lounge at the end of the hall," the nurse directed. "You have two hours before the evening visitors arrive."
Elliot nodded his thanks without speaking—his selective mutism serving as perfect cover for this operation. No one questioned a quiet piano tuner.
The VIP lounge was mercifully empty when he arrived. He set up his tools and began working on the piano, establishing his presence as legitimate while surveying the layout. Lucas's room was three doors down—visible from the lounge but guarded by a private security contractor who looked former military.
"You need a medical distraction," I advised through the earpiece. "Check your left jacket pocket."
Inside was a small device that, when activated, would interfere with the hospital's monitoring systems, triggering alarms at the nurses' station. Not enough to endanger any patients, but sufficient to draw attention away from Lucas's room momentarily.
Elliot continued tuning the piano, his fingers moving expertly across the keys, testing each note. The guard occasionally glanced his way but showed no particular interest in the maintenance work. After forty minutes of legitimate tuning, Elliot placed the disruption device beneath the piano and activated it with a tap of his foot.
Almost immediately, alarms began beeping at the nurses' station. Medical staff rushed to check monitors, the guard at Lucas's door tensed but maintained his position, and Elliot continued working as if nothing were happening.
"Wait for it," I instructed as the confusion escalated. "They'll need the guard soon."
Sure enough, within two minutes, a nurse hurried to Lucas's room, speaking urgently to the guard. After a brief exchange, the guard reluctantly followed her down the hall toward another patient's room where multiple staff had gathered.
"Now," I said. "You have maybe three minutes."
Elliot moved with calm efficiency, walking directly to Lucas's room and slipping inside. Through the button camera, I saw Lucas Albert propped up in bed, attached to monitors, looking pale and diminished. His eyes widened in recognition and fear when he saw Elliot.
"What are you—" he began, but Elliot raised a finger to his lips, closing the door softly behind him.
From his tuning case, Elliot removed a small recorder and placed it on the bedside table. Then he did something that sent chills down my spine: he removed a length of piano wire from his pocket, holding it up so Lucas could see it clearly.
This wasn't part of our plan.
"Elliot," I warned through the earpiece. "Stick to the script."
But he either couldn't hear me or was choosing to ignore me. He approached Lucas's bed slowly, the wire taut between his hands. Lucas's heart monitor began beeping faster as he reached for the call button.
Elliot was faster, grabbing Lucas's wrist with one hand while bringing the wire close to his throat with the other—not touching, but threatening.
"Jesus Christ," Lucas whispered. "You're going to kill me."
To my shock, Elliot spoke, his voice rough from disuse but perfectly clear: "Not if you tell the truth."
He gestured to the recorder with his chin. Lucas, eyes never leaving the piano wire, seemed to understand. "What do you want me to say?"
"Everything," Elliot replied. "Cynthia Zhang. The other girls. The trafficking. All of it."
Lucas's face contorted with genuine confusion at the last part. "Trafficking? What are you talking about?"
Elliot pressed the wire closer, not breaking skin but making his threat clear. "Father's foundation. The women from overseas. Don't pretend you don't know."
"I swear I don't," Lucas insisted, panic rising in his voice. "The foundation is Winton's project. Father lets him run it. I'm not involved."
Interesting. Either Lucas was telling the truth, or he was a better actor than I'd given him credit for. Either way, we needed to move on—time was running short.
"Cynthia Zhang," Elliot prompted, pressing the wire against Lucas's Adam's apple now. "Tell the truth."
Lucas swallowed hard, the movement making the wire indent his skin slightly. "It was supposed to be a prank. Just... just scare her a little. The acid was Winton's idea—he said it would keep her quiet."
"Why her?" Elliot demanded. "Why Cynthia specifically?"
"Winton said she was asking questions. About her father's death. Getting too close to something." Lucas's eyes darted to the door, then back to Elliot. "He said we needed to send a message. I didn't know what he meant, I swear. I was drunk, stupid... I just did what he told me."
The revelation confirmed what we'd discovered in Winton's office—my targeting had been deliberate, connected to my father's journalism. But hearing it directly from Lucas made it real in a way the documents hadn't.
"And the other girls?" Elliot continued, voice hardening. "All those files in Winton's office?"
Lucas's expression shifted to something like resignation. "That's just how it works. Rich guy makes a mistake, Winton cleans it up. Been happening since before I was born. Father calls it 'maintaining social equilibrium.'"
"You mean paying off victims," Elliot corrected.
"Sometimes money, sometimes threats, sometimes... other solutions." Lucas's gaze drifted to the window. "I never asked for details. Didn't want to know."
Willful ignorance—the refuge of the privileged. I felt a surge of disgust so powerful I nearly instructed Elliot to tighten the wire, but I controlled myself. We needed Lucas alive and talking.
"Did you try to kill yourself?" Elliot asked abruptly, changing topics.
Lucas's laugh was bitter. "No. Father came to my apartment after you and that woman left. Said we needed to discuss 'containment strategies.' Next thing I know, I'm waking up here with insulin poisoning. Some containment strategy."
So we'd been right—Albert had tried to eliminate his own son, either to silence him or to create a sympathetic narrative that painted him as the victim of our actions. The man's capacity for calculated cruelty seemed limitless.
"Guards coming back," I warned through the earpiece, spotting movement in the hallway. "Wrap it up."
Elliot seemed to sense the time pressure as well. He leaned closer to Lucas, still holding the wire. "One last thing. Where's the rest of the evidence? Winton's backup files."
Lucas's eyes widened. "How do you know about those?"
"Answer me," Elliot insisted, applying slightly more pressure with the wire.
"Safe deposit box," Lucas gasped. "Citibank on Park Avenue. Box 4721. Winton made copies of everything—insurance policy against Father."
The information was a goldmine—exactly what we needed to complete our evidence collection. But time had run out. Through the camera, I could see the guard returning to his post.
"Out now," I instructed. "Use the service elevator at the end of the hall."
Elliot pocketed the recorder and wire in one smooth motion, then did something unexpected. He grabbed Lucas's hand and squeezed it, leaning in to whisper something the microphone barely caught: "I'm sorry it came to this, brother."
A flicker of something—regret? understanding?—passed between them before Elliot slipped out of the room, just as the guard turned the corner. He returned to the piano, resuming his tuning as if he'd never left, while the medical staff gradually resolved the false alarms my device had triggered.
Twenty minutes later, Elliot packed up his tools and exited the hospital without incident, the valuable recording secure in his pocket. When he joined me at the coffee shop, his hands were shaking—the only visible sign of the strain he'd been under.
"The wire," I said quietly when we were safely inside a taxi. "That wasn't part of the plan."
Elliot pulled out his notebook, writing: *Needed him truly afraid to get the truth.*
"You could have killed him."
He met my gaze steadily, writing: *But I didn't.*
I studied him, seeing new depths to this young man I'd underestimated for too long. The quiet, traumatized boy had a darkness in him—a capacity for calculated violence I hadn't fully appreciated until now.
"Did you want to?" I asked softly. "Kill him?"
His answer was simple and chilling: *Every day for seven years.*
The taxi carried us back toward our safe house, both of us silent, processing the implications of what had just happened. Lucas's confession had confirmed our worst suspicions while adding new dimensions to the conspiracy. And we now had the location of Winton's backup files—the final piece we needed to complete our evidence collection.
But I couldn't shake the image of Elliot holding that piano wire to his brother's throat, the look in his eyes suggesting he was genuinely tempted to use it. I had awakened something in him by bringing him into my revenge—or perhaps it had always been there, waiting for permission to emerge.
As we entered our temporary home, Elliot handed me the recorder, his expression unreadable. I played back Lucas's confession, noting the genuine terror in his voice—the sound of a man confronting consequences for perhaps the first time in his privileged life.
"We'll move on the safe deposit box tomorrow," I decided. "Tonight, we prepare our final strategy."
Elliot nodded, then wrote something that gave me pause: *When this is over, what happens to Lucas?*
The question forced me to confront something I'd been avoiding. In my years of planning, I had focused exclusively on destroying Albert and Winton. Lucas had been my original target, yes, but as I uncovered the larger conspiracy, he had somehow shifted in my mind from architect to instrument—a privileged, callous instrument, but one wielded by more calculating hands.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Justice, I hope. Real consequences."
Elliot considered this, then wrote: *Not sure I can live in a world where he goes free.*
The statement wasn't a threat, exactly, but a simple truth from a young man who had been carrying the weight of silence for seven years. And it reminded me that while our goals aligned for now, Elliot's motivations—and his limits—might be very different from my own.
"Let's focus on exposing everything first," I suggested. "Then we can decide what justice looks like."
He accepted this with a nod, but something had shifted between us—an awareness that the path of revenge might eventually force us to make choices that could separate us as surely as it had brought us together.
