Chapter 3 - THE LINING OF SECRETS
"Move," Dominic ordered, his hand resting a fraction of an inch above the small of Lydia's back.
The gunfire in the main room had shifted into a sporadic, terrifying rhythm—the sound of Leo and the Russo men cleaning up the remaining Castellano hitmen. The kitchen was eerily quiet, save for the hum of the industrial refrigerators and Lydia’s own ragged breathing.
They slipped into the narrow hallway leading to the staff breakroom. Lydia’s hands shook so violently she could barely hold them straight. She was twenty years old. Yesterday, her biggest crisis was a failing grade in Microeconomics. Today, she had stepped over a dead colleague and was taking orders from a mob boss.
"Locker 42," she whispered, pointing down the row of dented gray metal doors.
Dominic didn't ask for the combination. He simply raised his matte-black pistol and fired a single suppressed shot through the cheap masterlock. It shattered. He yanked the door open.
Inside hung the oversized, worn brown leather trench coat. It smelled faintly of stale tobacco and cheap cologne—the unmistakable scent of Arthur Bennett, her estranged father.
Dominic pulled the coat out, its heavy weight shifting in his hands. "A hundred and fifty grand in debt," Dominic muttered, his icy eyes scanning the seams of the leather. "That’s what you owe Castellano, isn't it?"
Lydia gasped, stepping back. "How do you know that?"
"I know everything that happens in this city, Lydia. I know your father vanished six months ago. I know you've been working double shifts to pay the interest." Dominic threw the coat onto the breakroom table. "What I don't know is why a man like Castellano cares about a low-level gambler's coat."
He drew a switchblade from his pocket. With a swift, brutal motion, he sliced open the inner lining of the trench coat.
Lydia let out a small cry as the fabric tore. "What are you doing? That’s all I have left of him!"
Dominic didn't answer. He reached deep into the freshly cut wound in the leather and pulled his hand out. His expression, usually carved from marble, cracked into a look of genuine shock.
In his palm sat two items.
One was an antique silver pocket watch, heavily tarnished, with the initials D.R. engraved on the lid. The other was a crumpled, faded photograph.
Lydia stared at the watch. "D.R.? Dominic... Russo?"
Dominic’s breathing hitched. He popped the latch on the watch. Inside, instead of a clock face, there was a hollowed-out compartment. Sitting perfectly inside the groove was a tiny, black micro-SD card.
But it was the photograph that made the blood drain from Dominic’s face. He dropped the watch on the table and picked up the picture with trembling fingers.
Lydia leaned in. The photograph showed two men, much younger, standing arm in arm at a marina. One was a young Arthur Bennett, looking nervous but smiling. The other man was tall, imposing, with familiar icy blue eyes.
"Is that..." Lydia started.
"My father," Dominic whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "Taken the day before his boat blew up twenty years ago. The day Castellano supposedly saved his life... only for my father to be murdered two months ago."
The door to the breakroom violently kicked open.
Lydia screamed, diving behind Dominic.
Leo burst in, covered in blood that wasn't his, his gun raised. He took one look at Lydia, then at the photograph in Dominic's hand.
"Room's clear. Paul slipped out the back," Leo panted. Then his eyes locked on the picture. His jaw tightened. "Dom... where did you get that?"
"It was in her father's coat," Dominic said, his tone unreadable.
Leo’s gun instantly leveled at Lydia’s chest. "I told you, Dom. She’s the bait. Her old man didn't just owe Castellano money. He was Castellano’s rat. He probably set up your dad's hit!"
"No!" Lydia cried out, raising her hands. "My father was just a gambler! He wasn't in the mob!"
"Shut up!" Leo roared, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Castellano used him to infiltrate our accounts, and now they’re using the daughter to finish you off. Move aside, Dom."
"Lower the weapon, Leo," Dominic ordered, stepping directly into the line of fire.
"She’s a liability, Dom! Look at the evidence!"
"I said, lower it." Dominic’s voice wasn't a yell; it was a deadly, vibrating promise. He held up the antique watch. "Her father didn't set up the hit. He stole the insurance policy. This watch belonged to my father. Castellano must have taken it after the murder. Arthur Bennett stole it back."
Leo hesitated, his gun wavering.
Dominic turned to Lydia, his blue eyes softening for just a fraction of a second. "Your father isn't running from a gambling debt, Lydia. He stole Castellano’s darkest secrets. And if I know Castellano, he won't stop until he gets this chip back."
Dominic grabbed the coat, the watch, and the photo, then took Lydia’s hand. His grip was firm, surprisingly warm.
"Come on," Dominic said. "We need to see what's on this drive."
They hurried out the back alley, stepping over the wreckage of the night. As they climbed into the back of a heavily armored black Escalade, Lydia’s foot caught on something in the gutter.
She looked down.
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It was Thomas’s manila envelope. But it wasn't just stuffed with money. Poking out from beneath the bloody hundred-dollar bills was a pale blue pawnshop ticket.
Lydia snatched it up just as the door slammed shut. She flipped it over. Written on the back in her father's messy scrawl was a single address in Queens, and a note: For my brave girl. Don't trust the police.
