Chapter 3 - The Brother Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Adrian Costello was alive.
And according to my dead father, he was my brother.
I wanted to reject both facts.
Instead, I listened.
“You look like her,” Adrian said.
I looked around.
“Like who?”
“Your mother.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Where are you?”
“Closer than Vincent thinks.”
Vincent took the phone.
“Adrian.”
Silence.
Then laughter.
“Big brother.”
Vincent's face became stone.
“You sent those men.”
“I sent six.”
Vincent glanced at Marcus.
“There were twelve.”
“I know.”
The call ended.
That changed everything.
If Adrian had sent only six, who had sent the others?
We opened the ledger.
Names.
Dates.
Payments.
Dad had documented decades of transactions.
But they weren't criminal profits.
They were payouts.
To widows.
Families.
Children whose fathers had died working for the Costellos.
Dad had secretly redirected dirty money into restitution funds.
Vincent stared at the pages.
“My father would've killed him.”
“Maybe your father knew,” Marcus said.
Vincent looked up.
Marcus admitted the truth.
Vincent's father had known.
He had ordered Edward Bennett to build the fund.
Adrian had helped.
The three men had been trying to dismantle the violent side of the Costello empire from within.
Then somebody discovered them.
Vincent's father died.
Adrian vanished.
My father disappeared from the organization and became a plumber.
And the secret money kept moving.
“Who killed them?” I asked.
Marcus didn't answer.
Vincent did.
“That's what I was trying to find out.”
The ledger's final pages contained initials.
R.V.
Repeated hundreds of times.
Payments.
Weapons.
Bribes.
Judges.
Police.
Politicians.
Vincent photographed everything.
Then alarms screamed.
The vault manager appeared.
“Someone breached the building.”
Vincent grabbed my arm.
“Move.”
We escaped through a service stairwell.
Marcus led us into the parking garage.
A black SUV accelerated toward us.
Vincent shoved me behind a concrete pillar.
Gunshots.
Marcus returned fire.
The SUV crashed through the gate and disappeared.
On the pavement lay something deliberately thrown from the vehicle.
A photograph.
Vincent picked it up.
It showed Dad.
Adrian.
Marcus.
And a fourth man.
Vincent knew him.
I saw it immediately.
“Who?”
Vincent stared at Marcus.
Marcus looked terrified.
“Tell her,” Vincent said.
Marcus swallowed.
“Roman Vale.”
“My brother.”
I looked between them.
Marcus's brother had been Vincent's father's attorney.
He had disappeared after the murders.
Now R.V. made sense.
Roman Vale.
Marcus insisted Roman was dead.
Vincent didn't believe him.
Neither did I.
We returned to the bakery after police finally cleared the alley.
The damage made me sick.
Broken windows.
Bullet holes.
Ruined bread.
Flour everywhere.
My livelihood destroyed in minutes.
I sat on the floor.
Vincent quietly began picking up broken trays.
I stared.
“Chicago's most feared mafia boss cleans?”
“Don't tell anyone.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
It surprised both of us.
Then Vincent sat beside me.
“I'll pay for this.”
“No.”
“Nora.”
“No blood money.”
His expression shifted.
“Fair.”
“You can help rebuild.”
He looked around.
“You trust me with a hammer?”
“Absolutely not.”
Another tiny laugh.
For the first time, I saw the man beneath the reputation.
Tired.
Lonely.
Carrying something much heavier than a gun.
Then we found the message.
Someone had written it in flour across my stainless-steel counter.
THANK EDWARD FOR THE LEDGER.
My father was dead.
Vincent touched the words.
The flour was fresh.
Someone had been inside after police cleared the building.
We searched.
Empty.
Then a sound came from the basement.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Three more.
I approached the hidden wall.
Vincent raised his gun.
The mechanism clicked from the other side.
The wall began opening.
A shadow appeared.
May you like
Then a voice I hadn't heard in seven years said my name.
“Nora.”
