Chapter 3 - THE TORN LEDGER
Hannah stared at the polaroid in Dominic’s hand, the walls of the nursery spinning wildly around her. She recognized the faded yellow booth in the background of the photo. It was Sal’s Diner in Astoria. She had sat in that exact booth every Sunday with her father, eating cheap pancakes while he organized his insurance adjustment files.
“My father took this picture,” Hannah whispered, her voice barely audible. “I was twenty-four. We were celebrating his remission. Before the cancer came back.”
Dominic stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the children’s toys. His dark eyes flicked from the photograph to Hannah’s pale face. “Your father was Arthur Mercer.”
It wasn't a question. Hannah scrambled to her feet, instinctively putting a few inches of distance between herself and the mob boss. “How do you know his name?”
“Arthur Mercer was a senior data analyst for Vanguard Underwriting,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. “Vanguard is the firm that insures all of my commercial shipping ports. Two years ago, right around the time my wife became pregnant, Vanguard sent an auditor to review a series of unusual cargo losses. That auditor was your father.”
Hannah shook her head violently. “No. My dad was just a desk guy. He looked at spreadsheets. He didn't know anything about shipping ports or… or the mafia.”
“He knew enough to realize someone in my organization was stealing from me,” Dominic corrected sharply. “And worse, he knew someone was using my ports to smuggle unregistered weapons. I run a clean shipping business, Miss Mercer. The blood on my hands does not come from selling guns on the streets of my own city.”
Hannah’s chest heaved. “What does this have to do with your wife? Why did she have my picture?”
Before Dominic could answer, the heavy oak door of the nursery swung open. A man stepped into the room. He was impeccably dressed in a navy suit, his silver-streaked hair combed back, radiating an aura of polished authority. This was Silas, Dominic’s underboss and closest confidant.
“Dominic, the perimeter is secured,” Silas said, his eyes scanning the room before landing heavily on Hannah. A brief, almost imperceptible flicker of recognition flashed in his cold blue eyes, instantly replaced by a polite, dismissive glare. “Who is the girl?”
“She’s the waitress from Bellafonte,” Dominic replied smoothly, sliding the polaroid into his breast pocket before Silas could see it. “The one the girls reacted to.”
Silas frowned, stepping closer. “A coincidence. The trauma of the crowd, the noise—they were overwhelmed. You shouldn't have brought a civilian here, Dom. It’s a security risk. Pay her for her silence and let me have a driver take her back to Queens.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Hannah blurted out. The words shocked even her, but a sudden, protective anger flared in her chest. She looked at Lily, Grace, and Emma, who were now huddled together on the rug, watching her with wide, desperate eyes. Then she looked back at Silas.
She remembered Silas.
It was a fragmented, blurry memory from the horrific weeks leading up to her father’s death, but it was there. A man with a silver streak in his hair, standing in the hospital corridor outside her father’s room, arguing in hushed, violent tones with a frantic nurse.
Hannah pointed a trembling finger at Silas. “You were at Mount Sinai. Fourteen months ago. The night my father was transferred to the ICU.”
Silas’s expression remained utterly blank, a masterclass in composure. “I assure you, Miss Mercer, I have never set foot inside Mount Sinai.”
“You’re lying,” Hannah snapped, her fear entirely eclipsed by the sudden, burning memory. “You were wearing that exact same gold watch. You were holding a brown leather briefcase. My dad was terrified that night. He told me he lost a file. A file he said was going to pay for his experimental treatments.”
The air in the room grew suffocatingly dense. Dominic slowly turned his head, his piercing gaze locking onto Silas. “Is there something you wish to tell me, my friend?”
“She’s hysterical, Dominic,” Silas said smoothly, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Her father died of pancreatic cancer. She’s grieving and looking for ghosts. Clara’s death has made you paranoid. Are we really going to entertain the delusions of a traumatized waitress?”
Dominic didn't blink. “Clara left a note in the girls’ book. She told them to trust her.”
Silas’s eyes darted to the velvet book on the floor. For a fraction of a second, the polished mask slipped, revealing a flash of genuine, murderous panic.
“Let me take her downstairs,” Silas said, taking a step toward Hannah. “We will sort this out over a drink.”
“Do not touch me,” Hannah backed away, her heel catching on the edge of the rug. She stumbled backward, her hand flailing to catch her balance.
Her fingers grabbed the edge of a heavy, antique bookshelf. The force of her stumble pulled one of the loose wooden molding panels away from the baseboard. With a sharp crack, the wood splintered, revealing a dark, hollow cavity beneath the bottom shelf.
A small, black leather bound ledger tumbled out of the cavity, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
Dominic froze. Silas lunged forward, but Dominic’s arm shot out, catching Silas by the throat and pinning him instantly against the wall. The movement was so fast, so violently precise, Hannah gasped.
Dominic didn't look at his suffocating underboss. He looked down at the floor.
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The ledger had fallen open. Pinned to the first page was a blood-stained rosary—the exact rosary Clara was wearing the night she died. And beneath it, written in her father’s meticulous handwriting, was a list of offshore bank accounts.
All of them registered to Silas.
