Chapter 2 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Roman crossed the sidewalk before Marco could stop him.
Traffic hissed along the wet street.
Across the road, the black sedan remained at the curb.
The rear door stood open.
Nobody stepped out.
Roman stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Gabriel!”
People turned.
The sedan accelerated.
Roman watched it disappear through the intersection.
Marco reached him.
“You sure it was him?”
Roman did not answer.
Gabriel Castellano had been Dominic’s younger brother.
For most of Roman’s childhood, Gabriel had been the only adult in the family who treated him like a child instead of a future asset.
He taught Roman to fish.
He slipped him comic books during business dinners.
When Dominic became angry, Gabriel had a way of appearing in doorways without saying anything.
Then, when Roman was twenty-two, Gabriel disappeared.
A burned vehicle was found near Spokane.
Two bodies were inside.
Police believed Gabriel was one of them.
Dominic held a private memorial.
Roman had never seen a body.
Roman returned to the shop.
Claire stood behind the counter.
The object she had removed from the lining rested on a white cloth.
It was a small brass key.
Roman stared at it.
“Was that all?”
Claire shook her head.
“There’s a folded strip of paper underneath.”
Roman approached slowly.
Claire used tweezers to remove it.
The paper was brittle.
Roman unfolded it.
One line.
Box 317.
Below that:
King Street Station.
Roman looked at Claire.
“You know what this means?”
“No.”
“I do.”
Seattle’s King Street Station had once maintained private storage lockers.
Most were removed years ago.
Roman had used them as a teenager when traveling.
“Would a locker from twenty-four years ago still exist?” Claire asked.
“Probably not.”
Roman looked at the brass key.
“But someone may have made sure it did.”
Claire returned to the case.
“There’s nothing else in this section.”
Roman picked up the photograph.
His mother smiled at him from another lifetime.
Claire watched him.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Everyone always wants an explanation.”
“I repair leather.”
Roman glanced at her.
“That’s your answer to everything?”
“Most things.”
He studied her for a long moment.
“You’re not curious?”
“Of course I’m curious.”
“Then why aren’t you asking questions?”
Claire threaded a needle.
“Because curiosity doesn’t give me ownership over someone else’s pain.”
The sentence landed somewhere Roman did not allow people to reach.
He looked away.
Roman’s phone rang.
His father.
Dominic Castellano was seventy-two now.
He lived on a private estate overlooking Lake Washington, surrounded by staff, lawyers, and men who still called him Mr. Castellano.
Roman let the phone ring.
Claire noticed.
“You going to answer?”
“No.”
It rang again.
Roman silenced it.
Five seconds later, a message appeared.
Come home.
Roman stared.
Another message followed.
Bring the briefcase.
His expression hardened.
Claire saw it.
“Someone knows?”
Roman turned the screen off.
“Yes.”
“About the photograph?”
“Maybe about everything.”
Marco entered.
“Boss, we should move.”
Roman nodded.
He looked at Claire.
“Come with us.”
“No.”
“This may not be safe.”
“You were the one who brought danger into my shop.”
Roman accepted the rebuke.
“I need the case repaired.”
“That will take hours.”
“Then close the shop.”
Claire laughed once.
“No.”
Roman took out his wallet.
Claire’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t.”
“I was going to compensate you.”
“I know.”
He slowly put the wallet away.
“You really don’t care who I am.”
Claire met his eyes.
“I know exactly who you are.”
Roman went still.
Claire wiped her hands.
“My father knew your mother.”
Roman stared.
For the first time since entering the shop, Claire looked nervous.
“Say that again.”
“My father knew Elena Castellano.”
“How?”
“He worked for a leather maker in Boston before opening this shop.”
Roman looked toward the briefcase.
Claire nodded.
“Yes.”
“This case?”
“My father made it.”
Roman felt the room tilt.
Claire walked to an old wooden cabinet.
She unlocked the bottom drawer.
Inside were ledgers.
She selected one.
“My father documented every commission.”
She turned several yellowed pages.
Then stopped.
July 18, 2002.
E. Castellano.
Custom attaché case.
Black calfskin.
Burgundy lining.
Reinforced hidden document sleeve.
Roman read the final words twice.
“Hidden document sleeve.”
Claire nodded.
“My father built a compartment into it.”
Roman looked at the case.
“You said the compartment wasn’t original.”
“The section where I found the photograph wasn’t.”
“What about the document sleeve?”
Claire turned the case over.
Her fingers traced a seam near the bottom.
“This could be.”
Roman’s pulse quickened.
Claire worked for several minutes.
Then she found the release.
A nearly invisible leather tab.
She pulled it.
The false bottom lifted.
Inside lay an envelope.
Roman stopped moving.
The envelope was addressed to him.
ROMAN.
His mother’s handwriting.
Claire stepped away.
Roman opened it.
Inside were four pages.
He read the first paragraph.
Roman, if you are reading this, then I was unable to tell you the truth myself.
His eyes moved faster.
Your father believes loyalty means silence.
He has built his life around men who mistake fear for love.
I discovered something about the shipping company that I could not ignore.
Roman looked up.
Claire stood motionless.
He continued.
For years, Dominic had used portions of Castellano Maritime to move undeclared cargo for criminal partners.
Roman knew about that part of the family history.
He had spent a decade cleaning it up.
But Elena wrote about something worse.
A shipment that had resulted in deaths.
A cover-up.
Bribes.
A dockworker named Samuel Bennett.
Roman’s eyes stopped.
He looked at Claire.
“What was your father’s name?”
Her face changed.
“Samuel.”
Silence.
Roman lowered the letter.
“When did he die?”
“Twenty-three years ago.”
“How?”
Claire’s mouth tightened.
“Hit-and-run.”
Roman looked back at the page.
Elena had written:
Samuel Bennett helped me obtain copies of the manifests. If anything happens to him, Dominic will say it was unrelated. Do not believe him.
Claire slowly sat down.
“What did you say?”
Roman handed her the page.
She read it.
Her breathing changed.
“My father died six months after your mother.”
Roman felt sick.
Claire looked at him.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Your family killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just read—”
“I said I don’t know.”
Claire stood.
“Convenient.”
Roman flinched.
She walked away from the counter.
Roman followed.
“I was sixteen.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m trying to find out.”
Claire laughed bitterly.
“You walked in here because a briefcase was damaged.”
“Yes.”
“And underneath the leather is a letter telling me my father may have been murdered because he helped your mother.”
Roman had no answer.
Claire faced the window.
For years she had believed her father’s death was random.
He had left the shop one evening to buy dinner.
A car struck him three blocks away.
The driver was never found.
Claire had been twelve.
Her mother collapsed afterward.
The business nearly closed.
Claire had spent years learning every skill her father never had time to teach her.
Roman approached carefully.
“I’m sorry.”
Claire turned.
“Don’t apologize for something until you know what you’re apologizing for.”
Roman nodded.
Fair.
She looked at the letter again.
“What else does it say?”
Roman read.
Elena had hidden copies of documents.
Not in the briefcase.
At King Street Station.
Box 317.
She had given one key to Gabriel Castellano.
And one key to Samuel Bennett.
Roman looked at the brass key.
Claire stared.
“My father’s key?”
“Maybe.”
There was more.
If Dominic learns what Gabriel and Samuel helped me do, neither of them will be safe.
Roman folded the letter.
Claire’s face had gone pale.
“Your uncle.”
“May be alive.”
“And whoever followed you—”
“Could be him.”
“Or someone pretending to be him.”
Roman nodded.
Claire picked up her phone.
“Where are you going?”
“To King Street Station.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“You don’t get to tell me no.”
Roman nearly argued.
Then stopped.
“My mother hid something with your father.”
“Yes.”
“If Dominic was involved, you walking into this alone is dangerous.”
“So is standing near you.”
That one hurt because it was true.
Roman looked at Marco.
“Get two cars.”
Claire pointed a needle at him.
“One.”
Marco blinked.
Claire continued.
“If six men in suits walk into a train station behind us, we might as well announce ourselves.”
Roman looked at Marco.
“One car.”
Marco clearly hated this.
“Yes, boss.”
Twenty minutes later, Roman and Claire sat in the back seat of a black SUV.
Marco drove.
Claire held the brass key.
Roman held his mother’s letter.
Neither spoke.
King Street Station rose ahead.
They entered through the main hall.
Roman remembered traveling through it with his mother.
He hated that memory now.
Every memory felt contaminated by unanswered questions.
A station manager told them the old lockers had been removed.
Roman expected disappointment.
Then the manager looked at the key.
“That isn’t a locker key.”
Roman frowned.
“What is it?”
“Old baggage vault.”
The manager led them downstairs.
A locked corridor opened beneath the station.
Dusty storage cages lined the walls.
Numbers remained painted above them.
Roman stopped.
The manager unlocked the outer gate.
“Box hasn’t been accessed in years.”
Claire looked at Roman.
“How many?”
The manager checked a record book.
“Actually... that’s strange.”
“What?”
“Someone accessed it yesterday.”
Roman’s hand tightened.
“Who?”
The manager turned the page.
“There’s a signature.”
He pointed.
Roman leaned closer.
The name had been written in careful block letters.
GABRIEL CASTELLANO.
Claire whispered, “He knew you were coming.”
Roman inserted the brass key.
The lock clicked.
He opened Box 317.
Inside was nothing but a modern cell phone.
The screen lit instantly.
One incoming call.
UNKNOWN.
Roman answered.
He said nothing.
A man’s voice came through.
Older.
Familiar.
“Roman.”
Roman gripped the phone.
“Uncle Gabriel?”
A pause.
Then:
“If Claire Bennett is with you, get her out of the station now.”
Roman looked at Claire.
“Why?”
The voice became urgent.
“Because Dominic’s man is already downstairs.”
May you like
Behind them, the corridor door clicked shut.
Someone had just locked it from the other side.
