Chapter 4 - THE LEDGER'S SECRET
The air in the study turned ice-cold.
I stared at the wooden rosary dangling from Vincent’s fingers. My mind raced, struggling to connect the impossible dots.
“Eight years ago?” I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. “Your father died in Chicago the same night as the fire?”
Vincent’s dark eyes locked onto mine, searching for a lie he wouldn’t find.
“He told our family he was going to Chicago for a real estate acquisition,” Vincent said, his voice tightening. “He died in a hotel fire downtown. The police ruled it an electrical fault. We buried him three days later.”
My knees felt weak. I sank back onto the edge of the leather sofa beside Grace, who was now fully awake, watching us with wide, silent eyes.
“My apartment wasn't downtown,” I said, shaking my head. “We lived in the outskirts. A cheap complex near the rail yards. It couldn't have been the same fire.”
Vincent paced to the massive mahogany desk, his heavy footsteps thudding against the Persian rug. He slammed his fist onto the wood, rattling the crystal decanter.
“He lied,” Vincent growled, running a hand through his dark hair. “My father lied to us. He wasn't in Chicago for business. He was looking for Matteo.”
“But how would he know where we were?” I asked. “My dad changed our names. We moved three times. We left no paper trail.”
Vincent looked up. “My father never believed Matteo was a traitor. Never. While my grandfather spent years cursing Matteo’s name, my father quietly spent millions trying to find him. If anyone could track him down, it was him.”
Vincent walked back over to me and knelt down so he was at eye level. His presence was overwhelming, a mix of expensive cologne, danger, and a desperate need for the truth.
“Hannah, think carefully. The night of the fire. Did your father meet with anyone? Did anyone come to the apartment before the men who attacked you?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to return to that nightmare. The smell of smoke. The sound of my mother screaming. My father’s frantic hands pushing me out the window.
“No,” I whispered. “Dad came home late from his shift at the auto shop. He seemed panicked. He told my mom to pack a bag. He said 'they found me.' Ten minutes later, the door was kicked in. They started pouring gasoline.”
Grace whimpered at the fear in my voice. Vincent immediately softened his posture, offering her a gentle, reassuring smile that seemed completely at odds with his mafia reputation.
“I’m sorry, little bird,” he said softly to Grace. “We won't talk about the scary stuff anymore.”
He stood up and pulled his phone from his tailored suit jacket. He dialed a number and held it to his ear.
“Rocco,” Vincent barked into the phone. “Go to the archives in the basement. Pull every file, every police report, and every financial record regarding my father’s death in Chicago. Bring them to my study. Now.”
He hung up and looked at me.
“If my father found Matteo that night, and they both ended up in fires on opposite sides of the city… it wasn't a coincidence. Someone was trying to wipe out everyone who knew the truth about Vanessa’s father.”
The mention of Vanessa made my stomach churn.
“She’s still in the library,” I reminded him.
Vincent’s eyes darkened with a familiar, dangerous rage. “I haven't forgotten about my fiancée.”
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the heavy oak doors.
“Come in,” Vincent commanded.
The door opened, and Briggs, the massive head of security, stepped into the room. He looked nervous, clutching something dark and heavy in his hands.
“Sir,” Briggs said carefully. “You asked me to secure the perimeter and lock down the staff quarters. We found this in the employee locker room. The housekeeper said it belonged to the waitress.”
Briggs held up my coat.
It was an ugly, oversized wool peacoat I had bought from a thrift store five years ago. It was frayed at the cuffs and smelled faintly of the diner grease where I worked my day shifts.
“Put it on the chair and get out,” Vincent ordered.
Briggs hesitated. His eyes flicked to me, then to the coat, then to Vincent.
“Sir, Miss Carlton is demanding to speak with you. She says if you don't release her, her father will consider it an act of war.”
Vincent stepped forward, his towering frame dwarfing the large security chief.
“Tell Vanessa’s father that if he steps foot on my property, I’ll send him back to his mansion in a box. And Briggs? If you ever hesitate to follow my orders again, you'll be in the box next to him. Am I clear?”
Briggs swallowed hard, dropping the coat on a velvet armchair. “Crystal clear, boss.”
He quickly backed out of the room, shutting the heavy doors behind him.
I rushed over to my coat. It was my only armor against the cold world outside, and more importantly, it held the only piece of my past I had left.
“Why did they bring your coat?” Vincent asked, watching me carefully.
“My dad told me to keep this hidden,” I murmured, running my hands over the thick wool of the left lapel.
I found the tiny, frayed slit in the seam. I dug my fingers inside, feeling the rough paper hidden between the layers of fabric.
I pulled it out.
It was an old, faded train ticket stub.
I handed it to Vincent.
He looked at it, his brow furrowing. “This is a ticket from Chicago to New York. Dated eight years ago. The morning after the fire.”
“Look at the passenger count,” I whispered.
Vincent squinted at the faded ink.
Passengers: 2.
“Your father bought this,” Vincent said, looking up at me. “He planned to escape with you.”
“No,” I said, tears blurring my vision again. “My father didn't buy that ticket. When he pushed me out the window that night, he shoved this into my hand. He told me he couldn't come with me.”
Vincent looked down at the ticket again, his thumb brushing over the passenger count.
“If he didn't buy it for himself… who was the second passenger meant to be?”
Before I could answer, Grace reached out and pointed a tiny finger at the back of the ticket in Vincent’s hand.
“Look, Mr. Vincent,” she said innocently. “There’s a drawing on the back.”
Vincent flipped the ticket over.
His breath hitched.
Sketched onto the back of the ticket in hurried, faded blue ink was the Romano family crest. The lion in thorns.
But below it was a set of numbers. A bank account routing number.
Vincent stared at it, his hands trembling.
“Hannah,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “This is my father’s handwriting.”
I stared at him in shock.
“My father didn't die in that hotel fire,” Vincent said, his eyes wild with discovery. “He was supposed to be on that train with you. Matteo didn't run away from my father. They were working together.”
Before either of us could process the massive revelation, the heavy oak doors to the study suddenly clicked loudly.
Vincent rushed to the doors and grabbed the brass handles, pulling hard.
They wouldn't budge.
May you like
We were locked in.
And from beneath the crack of the door, a thick, acrid tendril of gray smoke began to seep into the room.
