Chapter 3 - The Man With the Key
Dominic did not go home.
He told the driver to take him to his father’s old office above Russo Produce, a legitimate wholesale company near Fulton Market that had existed long before the family’s darker businesses.
Nobody used Vittorio’s office anymore.
Dominic had avoided it.
Too many memories lived there.
The smell of cedar.
The ancient brass desk lamp.
A chipped coffee cup that Vittorio refused to replace.
An old photograph of Dominic at nine years old, sitting on the hood of his father’s Cadillac with both front teeth missing.
By six in the evening, Dominic sat alone behind Vittorio’s desk with the letter spread before him.
Carlo Moretti waited outside the door.
Dominic had ordered him there.
That alone had created tension.
For eight years, Carlo had been the person Dominic trusted most.
They had survived an ambush together.
Carlo had taken a bullet in his shoulder meant for Dominic.
Dominic had paid for Carlo’s mother’s cancer treatment.
Carlo had stood beside him at Vittorio’s funeral.
Trust, Dominic had always believed, was not spoken.
It was accumulated.
But so was betrayal.
He read the letter again.
Dominic,
If Beatrice Hayes gives you this, money has disappeared from the relief fund.
Do not assume the signature tells you the thief.
Daniel Hayes died protecting evidence that should have ended this years ago.
I failed him because protecting the family mattered more to me than admitting the family was rotten in places.
Trust Beatrice before you trust anyone carrying my name.
The enemy who destroys this family will not come through the door.
He will already have a key.
Dominic leaned back.
Beatrice.
He remembered her standing behind the marble counter, calmly holding the bag while armed men surrounded her.
No trembling.
No performance.
No attempt to bargain.
She had known exactly what she was doing.
Which raised the question he could not answer.
Why was the daughter of his father’s supposedly disgraced accountant working behind a register?
He called a number.
A man answered on the third ring.
“Yeah?”
“Eddie.”
The voice sharpened immediately.
“Dominic.”
Edward Vale was a private investigator who technically worked for a litigation firm and unofficially handled problems wealthy people did not want attached to their names.
“I need a background check.”
“Name?”
“Beatrice Hayes.”
There was a brief pause.
“Anything specific?”
“Everything.”
“Deadline?”
“Yesterday.”
Eddie sighed.
“I miss when you called with easy things.”
Dominic ended the call.
Then he pressed the intercom.
“Carlo.”
Moretti entered.
“You wanted me?”
“Sit.”
Moretti remained standing.
Dominic noticed.
“Sit.”
Carlo obeyed.
Dominic held up the receipt.
“What do you know about Alder Shore?”
“Nothing.”
“Cayman?”
“I know people hide money there.”
“Macau?”
Carlo shrugged.
“Never been.”
Dominic watched him.
Carlo’s expression was neutral.
Too neutral?
Or was Dominic seeing guilt because Beatrice had planted suspicion?
His father had been gifted at that.
One warning could poison every relationship in a room.
“Did my father ever talk to you about Daniel Hayes?”
“The accountant?”
“Yes.”
“He stole from your father.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
Carlo leaned forward.
“What’s happening?”
Dominic folded the receipt.
“Somebody took four-point-two million from the relief fund.”
Carlo’s face changed.
“What?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
Carlo stood.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Sit down.”
“Dominic—”
“Sit.”
Carlo sat again.
Dominic’s voice remained calm.
“That money belongs to families.”
“I know.”
“Men who took bullets for us.”
“I know.”
“Widows.”
“I said I know.”
Dominic leaned across the desk.
“Then understand something. I don’t care if the thief is a captain, a guard, a cousin, or a man who once saved my life. When I find him, history between us will not matter.”
Carlo held his stare.
“You think it’s me.”
“I think four-point-two million dollars disappeared using my credentials.”
“And because some cashier says she knows numbers, suddenly your father’s letter tells you not to trust anyone?”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed.
“I never told you the letter said that.”
Silence.
Carlo’s face went still.
Then he laughed once.
“Come on. What else would your father write?”
Dominic did not answer.
Carlo cursed.
“You know me.”
“I thought I knew everybody at this table.”
“What table?”
“The one my father warned me about.”
Carlo stared at him.
“You’re letting that woman inside your head.”
“No.”
Dominic stood.
“I’m letting missing money inside my head.”
Carlo left furious.
Dominic waited until the door closed.
Then he looked at his phone.
A message had arrived from Eddie.
CALL ME.
Dominic called.
“You find something?”
“I found too much.”
“What does that mean?”
“Beatrice Hayes is thirty-one. Born in Chicago. Daniel Hayes was her father. Mother died when Beatrice was nineteen.”
“I know that.”
“You know she graduated Northwestern?”
Dominic frowned.
“No.”
“Accounting and forensic finance.”
Silence.
“Top of her class.”
Dominic stood slowly.
“Why is she a cashier?”
“She isn’t.”
“What?”
“Not really. Bellandi Imports is hers.”
Dominic stared toward the windows.
“Explain.”
“She owns forty-eight percent. Rest belongs to an elderly woman named Lucia Bellandi. Beatrice handles the books, suppliers, payroll, import compliance. Apparently she takes register shifts because Lucia’s arthritis got bad.”
Dominic remembered the apron.
The cheap blue pen.
The calm hands.
“What else?”
“She worked for a forensic accounting company downtown for six years.”
“Which one?”
“Harper Cole.”
Dominic knew the name.
Corporations hired Harper Cole when they suspected internal theft worth millions.
“She left?”
“Three years ago.”
“Why?”
“That’s the interesting part. She helped expose an embezzlement scheme involving a major construction company. Somebody followed her home twice. Her employer told her she was becoming a liability.”
“So she quit?”
“No. She filed a complaint, forced them to pay her severance, and opened her own consulting company.”
Dominic smiled despite himself.
That sounded like her.
Eddie continued.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Your father visited Bellandi Imports seventeen times in the last two years of his life.”
Dominic’s smile vanished.
“How do you know?”
“Driver records.”
Dominic looked at Vittorio’s empty chair.
Seventeen visits.
Never mentioned.
“Get me everything on Daniel Hayes.”
“That may take time.”
“Take less.”
Dominic ended the call.
At seven thirty, he returned to Bellandi Imports.
Alone.
Beatrice was locking the front door.
She saw him through the glass and hesitated.
Then she unlocked it.
“No guards?”
“No.”
“Should I be honored?”
“No.”
She considered him.
“That sounds healthier.”
Dominic stepped inside.
The lights had been dimmed.
Without customers and bodyguards, the store felt almost intimate.
Beatrice turned the lock.
“I’m closing.”
“I know.”
“Then this must be important.”
Dominic removed Vittorio’s letter.
“You never opened it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because your father asked me not to.”
“You trusted him?”
Beatrice’s expression cooled.
“No.”
That surprised him.
“But you kept the letter.”
“I respected the promise.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
Dominic studied her.
“My investigator says you’re a forensic accountant.”
“Your investigator is fast.”
“He says you own this place.”
“Part of it.”
“Why let me think you were a cashier?”
Beatrice’s eyebrows rose.
“I didn’t.”
Dominic paused.
She was right.
He had assumed.
Again.
“Fair.”
Beatrice walked behind the counter.
“What do you want?”
“The truth about your father.”
Her posture changed.
Just slightly.
“My father kept books for Vittorio Russo for fourteen years.”
“I know.”
“He discovered money being moved from legitimate businesses into accounts he couldn’t identify.”
“How much?”
“Back then? Nine million.”
Dominic stared.
“This was fifteen years ago?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He copied everything.”
“Why?”
“He was afraid.”
“Of my father?”
“At first.”
Beatrice rested both palms on the counter.
“Then he realized your father wasn’t the only person involved.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect nothing from you.”
“Your father dies, mine tells everyone he stole money, and you never learn who killed him?”
Beatrice’s face became still.
“He died in a car accident.”
Dominic said nothing.
Beatrice looked at him.
Then understanding entered her eyes.
“What?”
Dominic had seen this moment before.
Families hearing what everybody else already knew.
He hated it every time.
“The brakes failed.”
“I know.”
“They were cut.”
Beatrice did not move.
The words seemed to reach her slowly.
“No.”
“My father had the mechanic killed two weeks later.”
Beatrice stepped away from the counter.
“No.”
“He never told you?”
“No.”
“Beatrice—”
“Don’t.”
She turned away.
For the first time, Dominic saw her composure fracture.
Her shoulders rose with one sharp breath.
She placed a hand against the shelf.
“My father drove me to school that morning.”
Dominic remained where he was.
“He complained because I’d left coffee in the cup holder. He said I’d ruin the upholstery.”
Her voice shook.
“He died four hours later.”
Dominic had no useful words.
He knew what grief did when given new information.
It became new grief.
Finally Beatrice turned.
“Who ordered it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your father?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“If Vittorio ordered it, he wouldn’t have killed the mechanic afterward.”
“Unless he was covering himself.”
“Possible.”
Her eyes hardened.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
Dominic approached slowly.
“But maybe this is.”
He placed another paper on the counter.
An old internal ledger Eddie had emailed ten minutes earlier.
Beatrice looked down.
Her eyes widened.
Daniel Hayes’s name appeared beside several transactions.
But beneath it was another set of initials.
C.M.
Beatrice looked up.
“Carlo Moretti?”
“He would have been twenty-three.”
“Did he work for your father?”
“His uncle did.”
“Name?”
“Salvatore Moretti.”
Beatrice immediately reached for a notebook.
“What?”
“Salvatore Moretti.”
“Yes.”
She flipped through several pages.
Dominic moved beside her.
“What are those?”
“Names my father wrote in an old address book.”
She stopped.
There it was.
SAL MORETTI — HARBOR.
Dominic felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“Harbor?”
“My father underlined it twice.”
Dominic’s phone rang.
Carlo.
He ignored it.
It rang again.
Beatrice looked at him.
“Answer.”
Dominic did.
Carlo’s voice came immediately.
“Where are you?”
“Why?”
“We have a problem.”
“What problem?”
“Captain Russo called an emergency meeting.”
Dominic frowned.
“My uncle?”
“All captains. Nine tonight.”
“Why?”
Carlo hesitated.
“Someone sent them an anonymous message.”
Dominic looked at Beatrice.
“What message?”
“That the relief fund is missing millions.”
Beatrice’s face changed.
Dominic lowered the phone.
“You said tomorrow.”
“I did.”
“Did you send anything?”
“No.”
Carlo’s voice sounded from the phone.
“Dominic?”
Beatrice took out her own phone.
Her fingers moved quickly.
Then she froze.
“What?” Dominic asked.
“My release protocol.”
“What about it?”
“It’s been accessed.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know.”
She turned the screen toward him.
The system showed a login attempt twenty-three minutes earlier.
Someone had tried to trigger the files.
Dominic stared at it.
“If you didn’t send that message…”
“I didn’t.”
“…then somebody knows you have the evidence.”
Beatrice looked toward the dark windows.
Dominic did too.
A black sedan sat across the street.
Engine running.
No headlights.
Beatrice whispered, “Was that car there when you arrived?”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“No.”
The sedan suddenly pulled away.
Dominic moved toward the door.
Beatrice caught his arm.
“Don’t.”
He looked down at her hand.
She released it.
“If they wanted you dead,” she said, “they wouldn’t announce themselves.”
“Then what do they want?”
Her gaze shifted toward the envelope, the ledger, and the blue pen lying between them.
“To know how much we know.”
Dominic looked at her.
“We?”
Beatrice swallowed.
“My father died because of this.”
Then the fear in her face hardened into resolve.
May you like
“Yes.”
“We.”
