Chapter 2 - The Name My Father Buried
The stranger's name was Marcus Vale.
Vincent knew him.
That became obvious immediately.
“Don't move,” Vincent said.
Marcus closed the bakery door behind himself.
“You're injured.”
“Observant.”
“You're also surrounded.”
“Still observant.”
Marcus looked at me.
I hated how calmly he did it.
“Your father spoke about you.”
“My father was a plumber.”
“No.”
One word.
No hesitation.
“My father fixed commercial plumbing for thirty-two years.”
Marcus shook his head.
“That's what Edward Bennett wanted you to believe.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Behind us came another violent crash against the steel alley door.
Marcus checked his watch.
“We have approximately four minutes.”
“Until what?” I asked.
“They breach that door.”
Vincent raised his weapon.
“Start talking.”
Marcus looked at him.
“You're alive because she came outside.”
“I noticed.”
“No, Vincent. You haven't.”
Marcus reached inside his coat.
Vincent aimed.
“Slowly.”
Marcus removed an envelope.
Old.
Yellowed.
My name was written across it.
NORA.
I knew the handwriting.
My knees nearly gave out.
Dad.
Marcus put the envelope on the counter.
“He gave me this seven years ago.”
“Why?”
“He said I should deliver it only if Vincent Costello entered your bakery.”
Silence.
I looked at Vincent.
He looked equally stunned.
“That makes no sense.”
Marcus nodded.
“I thought so too.”
The alley door groaned.
Metal bent.
Three minutes.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
My father stood beside a much younger Vincent.
Except that was impossible.
Vincent couldn't have been older than twenty-five in the picture.
Dad had his arm around him.
On the back were four words.
PROTECT HIM FROM ADRIAN.
“Who's Adrian?” I asked.
Vincent took the photograph.
His face hardened.
“My brother.”
The lights went out.
Somebody screamed outside.
Then my bakery windows exploded inward.
We hit the floor.
Gunfire ripped across the front counter.
Marcus crawled behind the bread racks.
Vincent returned two controlled shots.
I covered my head.
Glass rained everywhere.
Then silence.
“They're coming from both sides,” Marcus said.
Vincent looked at me.
“Basement.”
“I told you there's no exit.”
Marcus interrupted.
“Yes, there is.”
I stared at him.
He ran toward the basement door.
“How would you know?”
“Because your father built it.”
We descended.
The basement smelled like yeast and old wood.
Marcus pushed aside a shelving unit.
Behind it was brick.
He pressed one brick.
Nothing happened.
“Wrong one,” I said.
He tried another.
A click.
The wall shifted.
I stared.
I had owned this building for nine years.
There was a hidden passage in my basement.
Vincent looked at me.
“Your plumber father was interesting.”
“Shut up.”
We entered.
The passage led beneath the neighboring building.
Marcus locked the wall behind us.
For several minutes, we moved through darkness.
I held my phone flashlight.
Vincent limped beside me.
“You knew my father?”
“Apparently.”
“He never mentioned you.”
“He never mentioned being whatever Marcus thinks he was either.”
Vincent looked at the photograph again.
“Adrian was eighteen when this was taken.”
“Your brother wants you dead?”
“I don't know.”
“Those men seemed pretty committed.”
“Adrian disappeared five years ago.”
“Dead?”
“Supposedly.”
That word settled badly.
The tunnel ended beneath an abandoned laundromat.
Marcus opened a hatch.
We climbed out.
A sedan waited behind the building.
“You planned this,” I said.
“I planned for the possibility.”
Marcus drove.
Vincent sat beside me in the back.
I pressed another towel against his wound.
He watched me.
“What?”
“You could've stayed inside.”
“Yes.”
“You didn't.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I thought about it.
Because twelve against one was wrong?
Because I was tired of people being cruel?
Because Vincent's silence had reminded me of Dad, who never asked for help even when cancer hollowed him out?
“I don't know.”
Vincent nodded.
“That may be the first truthful answer I've heard tonight.”
Marcus drove us to a private medical clinic.
No sign.
No receptionist.
A doctor was waiting.
That was when I understood the scale of Vincent's world.
Doors opened for him.
People appeared.
Questions weren't asked.
The doctor treated Vincent.
Marcus and I waited outside.
I held Dad's envelope.
There was something else inside.
A key.
Small.
Brass.
Stamped with a number.
Marcus saw it.
His expression changed.
“You weren't supposed to have that.”
I closed my fist.
“Then I'm definitely keeping it.”
“Nora—”
“What does it open?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
He looked away.
I stood.
“Seven years. You had seven years to tell me my father had secrets. Tonight twelve men nearly murdered me because I walked outside at the wrong time. So we're finished with half-truths.”
Marcus lowered his voice.
“Your father once worked for the Costello family.”
My stomach dropped.
“As what?”
“An accountant.”
I laughed.
Dad hated math.
Then I remembered something.
He never hated math.
He pretended to.
Every Sunday he completed the crossword and my bakery books faster than I could.
Marcus continued.
“Edward discovered money being moved through shell companies. Millions. He believed someone inside the Costello organization was preparing to seize control.”
“Adrian?”
“He suspected Adrian.”
Vincent appeared in the doorway.
Fresh bandage.
Borrowed black pants.
“No.”
We turned.
“My brother wasn't stealing.”
Marcus stared.
“How do you know?”
“Because I found the same accounts six months ago.”
“And?”
Vincent looked at me.
“They lead here.”
“To my bakery?”
“To this property.”
My mouth went dry.
Vincent placed a document on the table.
An address.
My address.
Underneath it was a corporate name I'd never seen.
E.B. Holdings.
Edward Bennett.
Dad.
“This building has been receiving money from Costello accounts for twenty-two years,” Vincent said.
“How much?”
“Forty-eight million dollars.”
I sat down.
That was impossible.
I struggled to pay property taxes.
“Where is it?”
Vincent looked at the brass key in my hand.
“I think your father left us the answer.”
Key 317 belonged to a private vault facility downtown.
We went before sunrise.
Marcus objected.
Vincent insisted.
I didn't care what either man thought.
Dad had left the key to me.
I was opening it.
The vault manager examined my identification.
Then the key.
Then me.
“Ms. Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“We've been waiting for you.”
My skin prickled.
He escorted us downstairs.
Box 317 was enormous.
I inserted the key.
Turned it.
Inside sat a ledger.
A flash drive.
And another envelope.
This one wasn't addressed to me.
It read:
FOR VINCENT COSTELLO.
Vincent opened it.
His face went pale.
“What?”
He handed me the letter.
Only one sentence was written inside.
IF NORA HAS OPENED THIS BOX, ADRIAN ALREADY KNOWS SHE IS HIS SISTER.
I read it twice.
Then a phone began ringing inside the vault box.
An old black flip phone.
Vincent and I stared at it.
Nobody moved.
It rang again.
I answered.
May you like
A man's voice whispered:
“Hello, little sister.”
