Chapter 3 - My Father’s Death Certificate Was a Lie
Nobody moved.
Then Dante whispered, “Marco.”
“I'm here.”
“Back entrance.”
Marco nodded.
He pulled open a concealed panel behind the shelving.
A narrow tunnel appeared.
Dante grabbed my wrist.
“Move.”
We ran.
The tunnel smelled like dust and wet concrete.
Behind us, gunfire erupted.
Marco fired back as he retreated.
Dante stayed close.
I stumbled.
His hand caught my waist.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Lie better.”
We reached the exit.
A van waited underground.
We piled in.
Marco drove.
Only when the garage disappeared behind us did Dante look at me.
“You heard Nicholas.”
“Yes.”
“He could be lying.”
“Yes.”
“But you believe him.”
I looked out the window.
“My father never drove after drinking.”
Dante said nothing.
“The police report said he had a blood alcohol level of .16.”
“That's high.”
“My father was a man who measured his coffee beans.”
Dante listened.
“He didn't drink when he was working. He barely drank socially. Yet the report said he was intoxicated.”
“Did you challenge it?”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“The medical examiner said the toxicology was conclusive.”
Dante looked at Marco.
“Where was the report filed?”
“Newark.”
“Can we get the original?”
Marco nodded.
“Maybe.”
“Get it.”
Marco made a call.
I stared at my father’s photograph.
“I always knew something was wrong.”
“Why didn't you tell anyone?”
“Who would believe me?”
Dante leaned back.
“Me.”
The word was quiet.
But certain.
I looked at him.
“You believe me now?”
“I believe you enough to investigate.”
It should not have comforted me.
It did.
Two hours later, we were inside an old records facility outside Newark.
Marco had acquired access credentials from an attorney who apparently asked no questions about why one of New York's most dangerous businessmen wanted a sealed accident file.
The original report was pulled.
I read it.
Then read it again.
There it was.
Blood alcohol level.
.16.
The number that had haunted me for eighteen months.
Except the decimal had been overwritten.
The original figure underneath was visible.
.016.
My hands started shaking.
My father had not been drunk.
Someone had changed the report.
Dante took a photograph of the page.
“Who signed the correction?”
“Deputy examiner,” Marco said.
“Where is he now?”
Marco checked his phone.
“Dead.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Every trail led to a grave.
Except my father's.
His grave had been a lie too.
When we returned to the safe house, Dante spread every page from the ledger across the table.
He began grouping them.
Shipping.
Insurance.
Political contributions.
Security contracts.
Medical records.
Funeral expenses.
At first it looked like chaos.
Then the pattern emerged.
The same three shell companies appeared repeatedly.
Marrow Logistics.
Northbridge Security.
Vale Maritime.
I recognized the fourth name.
Voss Risk Advisory.
My father's company.
Dante frowned.
“Your father owned this.”
“Yes.”
“Why does his company appear beside Nicholas's companies?”
“He wasn't his partner.”
“Maybe he was.”
“No.”
I knew that word instantly.
Dante looked at me.
“How?”
“My father hated Nicholas.”
“Why?”
“Because Nicholas once tried to buy his company.”
Dante went still.
“What happened?”
“My father refused.”
“And then?”
“He said Nicholas told him, ‘Everybody sells eventually.’”
Dante stared at the ledger.
That sentence had appeared twice in the margins.
Everybody sells eventually.
Then we found the hidden column.
My father had coded it using shipping container numbers.
The first digits represented dates.
The middle digits represented names.
The final digits represented payments.
When decoded, the entries described bribes made to insiders within Dante's organization.
Seven names.
One was an accountant.
One was a warehouse manager.
One was a security contractor.
One was a city official.
Two were dead.
And the seventh was alive.
Marco Bell.
I stopped breathing.
Dante looked at the name.
Then at Marco.
Marco stepped backward.
“I told you.”
Dante stood.
“Tell me now.”
Marco's voice was controlled.
“I was investigating Nicholas.”
“Why did your initials appear in my father's ledger?”
“Because Samuel trusted me.”
I looked at him.
“Why didn't he tell me?”
“Because you were the reason he was vulnerable.”
My heart sank.
Marco continued.
“He knew Nicholas was watching you.”
“Watching me?”
“Not because you had anything to do with the business.”
“Then why?”
“Because your father was building a case against him.”
I opened the final envelope from my canvas bag.
My father had written my name on it.
For Alina. Open only when you know the man closest to Dante is compromised.
I stared at the words.
Dante stared too.
“I think,” I whispered, “we just found the reason he died.”
Inside the envelope was a key.
Old.
Brass.
Stamped with the number 417.
There was also a handwritten note.
The ledger is only the map.
The truth is in the place where your mother hid what I could not.
I looked at Dante.
“My mother?”
“She died when you were nine.”
“I know.”
“Did she ever mention a storage unit?”
“No.”
Marco suddenly looked alarmed.
“417.”
Dante turned.
“You know it?”
“Not a storage unit.”
Marco's face drained of color.
“A room.”
“Where?”
“The old Marchetti family hotel.”
Dante stood immediately.
“My father closed it twenty years ago.”
Marco nodded.
“That doesn't mean nobody has used it since.”
We drove to the old hotel before sunrise.
The building had been abandoned for years.
Dust covered the lobby.
Broken chandeliers hung from the ceiling.
Room 417 was at the end of a dark hallway.
The key opened it.
Inside was an empty bedroom.
A cracked mirror.
A wooden wardrobe.
A bed with no mattress.
I almost laughed.
“Nothing.”
Dante touched the mirror.
“Wait.”
Behind it was a hidden compartment.
Inside lay a cassette tape.
A photograph.
And another ledger.
Different handwriting.
My mother's.
I held the photograph.
It showed my mother, my father, Dante's father, and Nicholas Vale.
On the back were four words.
The night they betrayed us.
Dante found an old player in the wardrobe.
We inserted the cassette.
Static.
Then my mother's voice.
“If you're hearing this, Samuel failed to stop them.”
I covered my mouth.
Her voice continued.
“Nicholas is not the enemy you think he is.”
Dante froze.
I looked at him.
The tape crackled.
“The man beside him is.”
A pause.
Then my mother's final words.
May you like
“His name is—”
The tape cut out.
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