THE MEDAL AND THE MAFIA

I stared at the photograph, the industrial lights of the warehouse buzzing overhead.

“Frank?” Carmine asked, pausing at the top of the stairs. “What is it?”

I couldn't speak. I handed him the torn piece of paper.

Carmine frowned at the image. “That’s David. Who is the other guy?”

“His name was Elias,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “He was our squad leader. He died in the ambush. I saw him go down.”

“Okay,” Carmine said slowly. “So Arthur had a picture of the men he abandoned. It’s twisted, but it makes sense.”

“Look at the back,” I said.

Carmine flipped the photo over.

Written in fresh, blue ink were three words: See you soon.

“Arthur didn't write that,” I said, my heart hammering in my chest. “Arthur’s handwriting is erratic. This is precise. Military.”

Carmine’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me a dead soldier sent this to my father’s killer?”

Before I could answer, my cell phone vibrated violently in my pocket.

I pulled it out. It was Ruth Ellis.

“Ruth?” I answered, panic rising in my throat. “Are you safe? Are you out of the building?”

“Frank,” Ruth’s voice trembled on the other end of the line. But she wasn't crying. She sounded completely numb. “I went home. Emily brought me home from the dinner.”

“Good,” I breathed. “Stay there. The police have Arthur.”

“Frank,” Ruth interrupted. “There’s someone sitting in my living room.”

My breath caught. “Who?”

“He says he served with you,” Ruth whispered. “He says his name is Elias.”

The phone went dead.

“We need to go,” I told Carmine, sprinting down the metal stairs faster than my seventy-two-year-old knees should have allowed. “Now!”

Carmine didn't ask questions. He yelled for his driver, and within seconds, we were back in the armored SUV, tearing through the city toward Ruth’s modest suburban home.

“If this guy is a ghost, what does he want with a widow?” Carmine asked, loading a fresh magazine into his pistol.

“He doesn't want the widow,” I said, staring out the rain-streaked window. “He wants what David left behind.”

“The ledger? We have it.”

“Not the ledger,” I realized, the pieces finally falling into place. “The Bronze Star.”

Carmine frowned. “A medal? Why?”

“Because David didn't earn it for saving three men,” I said, the bitter truth tasting like ash in my mouth. “Elias was the squad leader. Elias was the one who orchestrated the theft of the smuggling money with Arthur. When the ambush happened, Elias tried to kill David to cover his tracks.”

“And David killed him?” Carmine asked.

“David thought he killed him,” I corrected. “David took the medal because the military thought Elias died a hero in combat. David couldn't tell the truth without exposing the entire smuggling operation and ruining the unit’s reputation. He carried Elias’s sins.”

We skidded to a halt in front of Ruth’s house. The front door was wide open, swaying in the wind.

I grabbed my pistol from my jacket—a habit I had never truly broken—and moved toward the porch, Carmine right beside me.

We stepped into the dark living room.

Sitting in an armchair, holding a steaming cup of tea, was a man in his late sixties, with a jagged scar running down his cheek. He looked perfectly calm.

Ruth was sitting on the sofa, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

“Hello, Frank,” Elias said, taking a sip of tea. “It’s been a long time.”

I aimed my gun at his chest. “Get away from her, Elias.”

Elias chuckled, setting the teacup down. “Put the gun away, Frank. I’m not here to hurt the widow. I’m just here for what belongs to me.”

He pointed to the velvet case sitting on the coffee table. The Bronze Star.

“David stole my glory,” Elias sneered. “He stole my life. I had to live in the shadows for thirty years while he played the hero.”

“You were a traitor,” I spat.

“I was a survivor,” Elias countered. He stood up slowly, keeping his hands visible. “I want the medal, Frank. And I want the money Arthur stole from me. That’s why I sent him the photo. To flush him out.”

Carmine stepped out of the shadows, his weapon trained on Elias’s head.

“Arthur’s money belongs to me,” Carmine said coldly. “And you’re trespassing.”

Elias looked at the mafia boss, unfazed. “Carmine Orsini. Your father was a fool. And so are you if you think you can walk out of here alive.”

Elias reached into his coat.

Carmine fired.

The shot deafened the small room. Elias stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, and fell against the wall. A heavy, silenced pistol dropped from his hand.

I rushed forward and kicked the weapon away.