Chapter 2 - The File Behind the Wall
Isabella did not sleep.
At three in the morning, she sat on the edge of a bed large enough to belong in a hotel suite and stared at the rain crawling down the windows.
Her uncle was dead.
Her father had been murdered.
The federal task force was compromised.
And somewhere in Alejandro Romano’s mansion was apparently a file that had been important enough for Thomas Santos to mention moments before his death.
The Verona file.
She replayed the words until they lost meaning.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in.”
Elena entered carrying tea.
“You should try to rest.”
“I’m beginning to think everyone in this house enjoys giving orders.”
Elena smiled slightly.
“Mr. Romano certainly does.”
Isabella accepted the tea.
“Have you worked for him long?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“So you knew him as a child?”
“Yes.”
“That must have been exhausting.”
Elena laughed quietly.
The sound felt strangely human in the fortress.
“His mother used to say he was born suspicious.”
“Smart woman.”
Elena’s smile faded.
“She was.”
Was.
Isabella noticed.
“What happened to her?”
Elena looked toward the closed door.
“That is Alejandro’s story.”
“Apparently everyone in this family has stories nobody tells.”
“That is also true.”
Elena left.
Isabella waited thirty seconds.
Then she got up.
If sleep was impossible, answers were not.
She walked barefoot into the corridor.
The mansion was nearly silent.
Two guards stood at the far staircase, but neither stopped her.
She returned to Alejandro’s study.
The door was unlocked.
That surprised her.
Inside, the hidden wall panel stood closed.
She searched the portrait frame until she found the latch.
The panel opened.
Shelves appeared.
Files.
Boxes.
A locked metal drawer.
She scanned labels.
ROMANO SHIPPING.
PETROV.
CUSTOMS.
NYPD.
FEDERAL CONTACTS.
Then one thin black folder near the back.
VERONA.
Her heart accelerated.
She reached for it.
“Bad habit.”
She spun.
Alejandro stood in the doorway wearing black pants and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
No jacket.
No tie.
He looked less untouchable.
More dangerous.
“You left it unlocked.”
“I did.”
“So you knew I’d come.”
“I hoped you would ask.”
“I’m tired of asking.”
She pulled the file free.
He did not stop her.
Inside were shipping manifests dating back eighteen years.
Photographs of burned warehouses.
Corporate records.
Newspaper clippings.
One image made her knees weaken.
Her father.
Mateo Santos.
Younger than she remembered.
Smiling outside a shipping terminal.
Beside him stood another man.
Isabella looked closer.
The second man looked impossibly familiar.
Same dark eyes.
Same straight posture.
Younger.
But unmistakable.
Alejandro’s father.
“Your father knew mine.”
Alejandro nodded.
“They were partners.”
“In what?”
“Legitimate freight logistics at first.”
“At first?”
“My father, Gabriel Romano, owned three shipping companies. Your father handled customs compliance.”
“And then?”
“Victor Petrov approached them.”
Isabella looked at the documents.
“For weapons.”
“For laundering money through freight routes. Weapons came later.”
“What happened?”
“My father refused.”
“And mine?”
“Refused with him.”
She looked at the fire photographs.
“The warehouse.”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“No.”
She swallowed.
“Who ordered it?”
Alejandro’s voice turned flat.
“Petrov.”
“Then why is he still alive?”
His eyes met hers.
“Because proving a man ordered something is not the same as knowing it.”
The answer told her more about Alejandro than he intended.
“You’ve wanted to kill him.”
“Yes.”
“For years?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because my father made me promise I wouldn’t start a war without proof.”
Isabella stared.
“Your father survived?”
“For six months.”
She understood.
“He died from the fire.”
“Complications.”
Alejandro looked away for the first time.
Isabella closed the file.
“So our fathers died because they said no to Petrov.”
“Yes.”
“And my uncle spent years trying to prove it.”
“Yes.”
“And you helped him.”
“Yes.”
The pattern settled into place.
“But the gala shipment…”
“Was likely Petrov’s biggest operation in years.”
“Weapons?”
“A lot of them.”
“To whom?”
“That’s what Thomas was trying to discover.”
Isabella’s gaze returned to the file.
A page near the back contained an unfamiliar name.
DANIEL MERCER.
She pointed.
“Who is he?”
Alejandro did not answer immediately.
“That,” Isabella said, “usually means the answer is bad.”
“Mercer is deputy director of the federal task force Thomas warned us about.”
“Federal.”
“Yes.”
“He’s the leak?”
“We don’t know.”
“You suspect him.”
“I suspect everyone.”
“That must be relaxing.”
“It isn’t.”
A phone buzzed in Alejandro’s pocket.
He checked the screen.
His face hardened.
“What?”
“One of my men at your apartment just reported a break-in.”
Isabella went cold.
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“They weren’t searching for valuables.”
“For what?”
Alejandro’s eyes dropped to the Verona file.
“Something Thomas may have hidden with you.”
Isabella thought of her apartment.
The old books.
The kitchen drawers.
The box of family photos.
Then she remembered.
“My father’s watch.”
Alejandro frowned.
“What?”
“Thomas gave it to me when I turned eighteen. He said it was the only thing recovered from the warehouse fire.”
“Where is it?”
“In my apartment.”
Alejandro was already moving.
“No.”
She followed him.
“What?”
“You stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Isabella.”
“If that watch matters, I’m coming.”
“It could be a trap.”
“Then you’ll enjoy being right.”
He stopped.
“You think this is a game?”
“No.”
“Then listen to me.”
“You want me to trust you? Stop treating me like cargo.”
The words landed.
Alejandro stared at her.
Then he turned to a guard.
“Get the car.”
Twenty-five minutes later, they entered Isabella’s apartment building through the rear.
The lock on her door had been forced.
Inside, drawers were open.
Cushions sliced.
Books thrown everywhere.
Isabella stepped over broken glass.
“My watch.”
She hurried to the bedroom.
The small wooden jewelry box was gone.
“Damn it.”
Alejandro surveyed the room.
“Where did you keep it?”
“Top drawer.”
He looked toward the window.
“Too obvious.”
“It was a watch.”
“To you.”
Isabella crouched near the dresser.
Something glittered beneath it.
She reached underneath.
A metal disk.
The back plate of the watch.
She picked it up.
Alejandro took it carefully.
There was a tiny slot cut inside.
Too small for jewelry.
Perfect for storage.
“A micro-SD card,” he said.
Isabella stared.
“Hidden inside the watch?”
“Looks that way.”
“But it’s gone.”
A floorboard creaked in the hall.
Alejandro’s head snapped up.
“Down.”
He pulled Isabella behind the bed as a gunshot tore through the wall.
Glass shattered.
His men fired back.
Someone ran.
Alejandro moved with frightening speed, drawing a pistol from beneath his jacket.
Isabella grabbed his sleeve.
“Don’t leave me.”
The words escaped before she could stop them.
He looked down at her hand.
Then at her face.
“I won’t.”
His voice changed.
Not softer.
More absolute.
Two minutes later, one of his guards called clear.
The shooter had escaped down the fire stairs.
But he had dropped something.
A small black key card.
Stamped with a silver seal.
FEDERAL OPERATIONS DIVISION.
Isabella stared at it.
“So Thomas was right.”
Alejandro picked up the card.
“Someone inside the task force is hunting the same evidence.”
“Then what was on that card?”
“We need to assume the answer is dangerous.”
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Alejandro motioned for her not to answer.
She answered anyway.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man’s voice.
Calm.
Educated.
“Miss Santos.”
She looked at Alejandro.
“Yes?”
“My name is Daniel Mercer.”
Her blood went cold.
Deputy director.
The man from the Verona file.
“I believe you have something that belongs to the federal government.”
Isabella forced herself to breathe.
“What?”
“Your father’s watch.”
Alejandro’s eyes hardened.
Mercer continued.
“You’re in danger with Romano.”
She looked at Alejandro.
“He’s using your grief. Your uncle discovered what Romano really is before he died.”
Isabella said nothing.
May you like
Mercer lowered his voice.
“I can prove Alejandro Romano ordered your uncle’s murder.”
