Chapter 5 - The Truth About the Marino Family
Vincent didn't speak for nearly a minute.
His mother sat with tears running down her face.
I watched him struggle with a truth I understood all too well.
The people we loved were not always the people we believed them to be.
His father, Alessandro Marino, had died five years earlier from complications following a stroke.
According to every article I'd ever read, Alessandro had ruled Chicago's criminal underworld for decades.
He was feared, respected, and rarely challenged.
Vincent had inherited his position at thirty-three.
Now, at thirty-eight, he controlled a sprawling collection of legitimate businesses and an illegal organization that continued operating in the shadows.
But whatever else Alessandro had been, he was Vincent's father.
And his mother had just accused him of helping destroy mine.
“Tell me exactly what Daniel said,” Vincent demanded.
His mother closed her eyes.
“He came to the house after midnight.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Was Father there?”
“No. He was attending a meeting.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“And?”
“He said Samuel had stolen millions from pension funds connected to legitimate companies. He was moving the money through businesses controlled by people your father trusted.”
“Father wouldn't have needed Voss to steal that money.”
“That's what I said.”
Vincent's mother looked ashamed.
“Daniel told me Alessandro had been signing documents without reading them. Samuel had manipulated him.”
Vincent frowned.
“So Father was careless?”
“At first.”
I listened carefully.
Something about her answer bothered me.
“What changed?”
She looked at me.
“Daniel discovered that some of the money had been used to bribe officials and finance violent attacks against rival organizations.”
Vincent's face darkened.
“My father knew about those attacks.”
His mother looked away.
“Yes.”
He stared at her.
“How much did he know?”
She began crying harder.
“More than I wanted to believe.”
The room fell silent.
Vincent walked to the window.
His broad shoulders were rigid.
I recognized that posture.
The desperate attempt to remain standing when something inside you was collapsing.
I wanted to comfort him.
But I barely knew this man.
And the truth about my father was tangled in the history of his family.
Finally, Vincent turned.
“Did Father order Daniel killed?”
His mother looked horrified.
“I don't know.”
“Mother.”
“I never heard him give such an order.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
She covered her face.
Vincent looked away.
I rose and approached him.
“Vincent.”
He shook his head.
“Give me a minute.”
I stopped.
Then, unexpectedly, he reached for my hand.
His fingers closed around mine.
I stood beside him.
And for a few moments, neither of us spoke.
Then Marco entered.
“Boss. The forensic specialist is here.”
Vincent took a breath.
“Good.”
He released my hand.
“We'll finish this later, Mother.”
She nodded.
I followed him into a private office on the second floor.
The room looked more like a lawyer's workspace than a Mafia headquarters.
Bookshelves lined the walls.
A large wooden desk stood beneath tall windows.
There were no weapons on display.
No dramatic portraits.
Only paperwork, computers, and a framed photograph of Vincent as a teenager standing beside his parents.
A woman in her early forties waited near the desk.
She wore glasses and carried a small equipment case.
“Dr. Lena Brooks,” Vincent introduced. “Digital forensic specialist.”
She shook my hand.
“Miss Hartwell.”
“Can you read the card?”
“I can try.”
She placed the storage card inside a specialized reader connected to an isolated laptop.
For several minutes, she worked in silence.
Then she frowned.
“Interesting.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“What?”
“The card contains an encrypted archive.”
“Can you open it?”
“Not without a password.”
I sighed.
“Of course.”
Lena glanced at the metadata.
“The archive was created in September 2009.”
The month my father disappeared.
She continued.
“There are three encrypted files and a small unencrypted text document.”
My pulse quickened.
“Can we read that?”
“Yes.”
She opened it.
A single sentence appeared on the screen.
Evelyn, if you're reading this, remember what we did every Sunday morning.
I stared.
Then laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I suddenly understood.
Vincent turned toward me.
“What?”
“Pancakes.”
He frowned.
“Pancakes?”
“My father made pancakes every Sunday morning.”
Lena looked at the password field.
“Worth trying.”
She typed PANCAKES.
Incorrect password.
I shook my head.
“No. That's too easy.”
Vincent leaned against the desk.
“What else?”
I closed my eyes.
Sunday mornings.
Dad in the kitchen.
Mom reading the newspaper.
Me sitting at the counter, complaining that he burned everything.
He always wore the same ridiculous apron.
Blue.
Covered in tiny yellow ducks.
And every Sunday, he made me say—
My eyes flew open.
“Burnt pancakes taste like victory.”
Vincent stared.
“I'm sorry?”
“That was our joke.”
Lena typed the phrase without spaces.
Incorrect.
I frowned.
“Try all lowercase.”
Incorrect.
Vincent crossed his arms.
“Your father had a complicated sense of humor.”
I almost smiled.
Then I remembered something else.
Every Sunday, before serving breakfast, my father knocked three times on the kitchen counter.
Then twice.
Our secret rhythm.
Three knocks.
Two knocks.
I'd forgotten about it until Rachel used the same pattern inside the closet.
I looked at Lena.
“Try 322.”
Incorrect.
“ThreeTwoTwo.”
Incorrect.
I stared at the screen.
Then slowly whispered, “It's not a password.”
Vincent looked at me.
“What?”
“It's an instruction.”
I approached the laptop.
“The message says remember what we did every Sunday morning.”
Lena nodded.
“Yes.”
“My father used to read the newspaper while the pancakes cooked. He gave me the business section and made me find mistakes in the numbers.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
“At seventeen?”
“Since I was eight.”
“Your family had unusual hobbies.”
I ignored him.
“He called it our treasure hunt.”
Lena studied the file names.
There were three.
LEDGER.
TRANSFER.
WITNESS.
Each had an eight-digit numerical suffix.
I stared.
“Those numbers.”
Lena enlarged the screen.
The file names ended in dates.
08152009.
09032009.
09172009.
My stomach tightened.
September seventeenth.
The day my father supposedly died.
“What if the password is a number from one of the financial records?” I asked.
Lena examined the text document again.
“Could be.”
Vincent frowned.
“Then we need the original accounting records.”
“Wait,” I said.
I remembered another Sunday ritual.
Dad always made me calculate the number of days until my birthday.
Even when it was months away.
He'd say numbers were the one thing nobody could argue with.
My birthday was November twenty-second.
I looked at Lena.
“Try 1122.”
Incorrect.
I closed my eyes.
“Try the date of my seventeenth birthday. November twenty-second, 2008.”
She entered 11222008.
The screen changed.
A progress bar appeared.
Then three folders opened.
I stopped breathing.
Lena whispered, “We're in.”
Vincent moved closer.
The first folder contained financial records.
Bank statements.
Property transfers.
Corporate ownership documents.
Lists of wire transactions.
The second held audio recordings.
The third contained scanned letters.
Lena opened the first recording.
My father's voice filled the room.
I grabbed the desk.
“Daniel Hartwell. September third, 2009.”
His voice was older than I remembered.
Tired.
But unmistakable.
My father.
“If anything happens to me, this recording should be considered evidence that Samuel Voss and his associates have been laundering stolen assets through shell companies connected to Marino Holdings.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
My father continued.
“I have reason to believe Alessandro Marino knows part of what has been happening, but I cannot determine whether he understands the full extent of Voss's operations.”
I looked at Vincent.
He was staring at the screen.
The recording continued.
“The money has been used to finance an illegal weapons network and payments to public officials. I have documented the transactions.”
Lena paused.
“There's more.”
She opened another recording.
A man's voice spoke.
“Daniel, you're making a mistake.”
I didn't recognize him.
Vincent did.
“Father,” he whispered.
My stomach dropped.
Alessandro Marino.
The dead Mafia patriarch.
My father answered.
“Then help me fix it.”
“You don't understand what you're asking.”
“I understand people are being hurt.”
“You think Voss will simply walk away?”
“I think you can stop him.”
A long silence.
Then Alessandro spoke again.
“Give me the records.”
“No.”
“Daniel.”
“If I give them to you, they'll disappear.”
Vincent leaned heavily against the desk.
His father's voice continued.
“You're accusing me of protecting a traitor.”
“I'm asking you to prove you're not.”
The recording ended.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Lena opened the scanned letters.
The first was addressed to Margaret Hartwell.
The second to a federal prosecutor.
The third—
I froze.
It was addressed to me.
Evelyn.
My hands shook as Lena opened it.
The letter began:
My beautiful Evie,
If you ever read this, something has gone terribly wrong.
I am sorry for putting you in danger.
I wanted to protect you from the kind of people who believe money and power give them the right to destroy other families.
You once asked me whether brave people are ever afraid.
I told you yes.
The difference is that brave people do the right thing anyway.
I hope you remember that.
There is something you need to know about your mother.
I stopped reading.
The room seemed to tilt.
Vincent noticed.
“Evelyn?”
I forced myself to continue.
Margaret has been helping me gather evidence.
She knows more than anyone suspects.
If I disappear, she may have to make decisions that seem impossible to understand.
Please don't hate her until you know the whole truth.
My eyes filled.
I read the final paragraph.
And if Vincent Marino ever finds you, give him a chance.
He was only a boy when I met him.
But there is goodness in him.
I saw it when nobody else did.
I believe you will too.
Love always,
Dad.
I looked at Vincent.
He was staring at the letter.
His face had gone completely still.
“He knew,” I whispered.
Vincent swallowed.
“He knew what?”
“That we'd meet someday.”
Vincent shook his head.
“No. He hoped I'd find you if things went wrong.”
“But you were looking for me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He hesitated.
Then reached into his jacket.
He removed an old folded envelope.
My father's handwriting covered the front.
VINCENT MARINO.
DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU BELIEVE EVELYN IS IN DANGER.
Vincent handed it to me.
“I received this from Daniel's former attorney three weeks ago.”
I stared at the envelope.
“Why now?”
“Because the attorney had instructions to send it if anyone attempted to access the storage unit after the trust expired.”
I looked up.
“So whoever broke in activated the warning.”
Vincent nodded.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was another letter.
Shorter.
Written directly to Vincent.
May you like
The final sentence made my stomach twist.
If Samuel Voss comes back, do not trust Margaret Hartwell until you know which side she has chosen.
