Chapter 3 - The Name on the Tape
Dante killed the basement light.
"Stay down."
Footsteps crossed the garage above us.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Whoever had entered believed the building was empty.
Dante moved toward the stairs.
I grabbed his sleeve.
"The tape."
He looked at the recorder.
My father's last warning had been interrupted by the sound upstairs before either Tommy or I could react.
But Dante had heard it.
So had I.
The name Dad said was Nico.
Nico Bellini.
Dante's second-in-command.
The man who had hired me.
The man who knew my driving schedule.
The man who had insisted I never tell anyone where I lived.
Dante's face revealed nothing now.
That scared me.
"Nico?" I whispered.
"Later."
"Dad said not to trust him."
"I heard."
"You've known him how long?"
"Twenty-five years."
Another footstep.
Dante raised one finger.
Silence.
Then metal scraped overhead.
Someone was opening drawers.
Searching.
Tommy whispered, "There were two earlier."
Dante looked at him.
"How many came down here?"
"Two."
"These the same?"
"I don't know."
Dante handed me his spare magazine.
I stared at it.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Hold it."
"Comforting."
He ignored me.
Then he climbed the stairs.
I waited three seconds.
Followed him.
He looked back.
Annoyed.
I mouthed, My garage.
His eyes narrowed.
But he kept moving.
The office door stood open.
A shadow crossed the frosted window.
Dante gestured toward the left.
I understood.
Years of racing with Dad had taught me hand signals.
Years of driving criminals had taught me newer ones.
I moved behind a tool cabinet.
A man stepped from the office holding a flashlight.
I recognized him.
Not his name.
His face.
He worked security at one of Victor Salvi's clubs.
I'd dropped Dante there two months earlier for a meeting.
The man saw Dante.
His hand moved toward his waistband.
Dante hit him before he could draw.
Fast.
Clean.
The pistol skidded beneath a workbench.
A second man rushed from behind the hydraulic lift.
I swung the wrench.
It connected with his forearm.
His weapon fell.
Dante stared at me.
"What?"
"You really are a mechanic."
"Shocking."
The first man tried to stand.
Dante pressed him against the concrete.
"Who sent you?"
"Go to hell."
Dante sighed.
Not angry.
Almost bored.
"Victor?"
The man smiled through a bleeding lip.
"You've got bigger problems than Victor."
Dante's face hardened.
"Who?"
The man's gaze moved toward me.
"Ask the driver."
I felt cold.
Dante looked at me.
"I don't know him."
The man laughed.
"No. But your daddy did."
I stepped closer.
"What did you do to my father?"
"Nothing."
"What did Salvi do?"
His smile widened.
"You're asking the wrong question."
Dante pressed him harder against the floor.
"Then give us the right one."
The man looked directly at me.
"Ask why Carlo Moretti died three days after meeting Daniel Hart."
My father.
Dante froze.
The silence lasted one second too long.
The man used it.
He twisted.
Reached for something taped inside his sleeve.
Dante knocked his hand aside.
A small knife clattered away.
The second intruder bolted toward the side exit.
I went after him.
"Lena!"
Too late.
I reached the alley as he jumped into a gray SUV.
It accelerated.
I caught the plate.
Massachusetts.
7KJ-419.
Then the rear window lowered.
I ducked behind the brick wall.
A shot cracked.
Glass shattered above me.
Dante dragged me backward.
"You chase armed men often?"
"Only Thursdays."
"It's Friday."
"Then I'm slipping."
He stared at me like he was deciding whether to yell or laugh.
Instead he said, "Plate?"
I told him.
He repeated it once.
Memorized.
Then we returned inside.
The first intruder was gone.
A blood streak led toward the front entrance.
Dante swore.
Tommy emerged from the basement holding the old revolver.
I nearly screamed.
"Put that down."
"It's Dad's."
"I don't care."
Dante took it carefully.
Checked the cylinder.
His expression changed.
"What?"
He removed one cartridge.
Placed it beside the brass casing from the warehouse.
Same manufacturer.
Same unusual engraving.
H.A.R.
Tommy frowned.
"Dad had custom ammunition?"
Dante shook his head.
"Not custom."
He held both rounds toward the light.
"Tracked."
I didn't understand.
He explained.
"Old crews sometimes marked ammunition by source. Warehouses, shipments, suppliers. These letters aren't your garage initials."
"Then what?"
"Harbor Arms Reserve."
I looked at the ledger.
Harbor.
The word appeared everywhere.
"Harbor 17?"
Dante nodded.
"Possibly."
My father had kept a revolver connected to the same ammunition used in tonight's attack.
Which meant he had known where the bullets came from.
Maybe transported them.
Maybe hidden them.
Maybe stolen them.
Nothing about the man I remembered matched the life unfolding around me.
Dad wore stained jeans.
Burned pancakes.
Sang badly in the garage.
Collected old radios.
He had never looked like someone who moved evidence for mafia bosses.
But maybe that was the point.
Neither did I.
Dante paced once.
Then pulled out his phone.
He called someone.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
"Nico?" I asked.
He didn't reply.
That was answer enough.
Tommy sat on the workbench.
"So what now?"
Dante looked at the broken window.
"We leave."
"This is my garage."
"It's compromised."
"I'm not abandoning it."
"People found a hidden room beneath your floor."
"They had a key."
"Exactly."
I knew he was right.
I hated that too.
I packed the ledger, cassette, photograph, and key into a canvas tool bag.
Tommy grabbed his jacket.
Dante looked toward my truck.
"No."
"What?"
"We take my car."
"Why?"
"Because yours is probably tracked."
"Yours wasn't?"
His expression said fair point.
We checked both.
My truck had a magnetic tracker beneath the rear bumper.
Dante's sedan had none.
At least none we found.
"You were right," I said.
"Say it again."
"Don't ruin it."
For the first time, he smiled fully.
It changed his face.
Made him look younger.
Almost normal.
Then he remembered who he was.
The smile disappeared.
We drove to a safe apartment above a bakery in Cambridge.
Dante owned the building through one of his legitimate companies.
Of course he did.
Tommy fell asleep on the sofa within minutes.
I couldn't.
Dante stood beside the window, phone in hand.
Still no answer from Nico.
"Maybe he's dead," I said.
Dante's jaw tightened.
"You'd prefer that?"
"Over betraying you?"
"Yes."
That answer came too quickly.
Twenty-five years.
I thought about Dad's tape.
"Why would my father warn me about him?"
"I don't know."
"You trust him?"
"I did."
Past tense.
The room felt smaller.
I opened the ledger again.
Dates.
Codes.
Initials.
Payments.
Then I noticed something.
One column marked DRIVER.
Most entries contained initials.
D.H.
My father.
Others:
N.B.
Nico Bellini.
And C.M.
Carlo Moretti.
Three men had driven together.
I pointed.
"Dad and Nico knew each other."
Dante took the book.
His face tightened.
"He told me he'd never met Daniel Hart."
"Then he lied."
Dante said nothing.
I flipped to later entries.
The handwriting changed after Carlo's death.
My father continued recording.
Six years ago, the final page contained a single transaction.
HARBOR 17.
TRANSFER DENIED.
SALVI PRESENT.
N.B. PRESENT.
Then:
D.H. EXIT 02:14.
CRASH 02:31.
I couldn't breathe.
Seventeen minutes.
My father's accident happened seventeen minutes after leaving Harbor 17.
Dante stared at the page.
"Your father's death is in the ledger."
"Someone wrote it before the police report."
"Looks that way."
"Who?"
He looked at the handwriting.
Then the photograph.
Then my father's tape.
"I need to hear the recording again."
We played it.
This time nothing interrupted.
"Lena, there's one person you must never trust."
Static.
"Nico Bellini."
My fingers went numb.
Dad continued.
"He isn't what Carlo believed. If Dante Moretti is alive when you hear this, give him the ledger only if he comes to you himself. Nobody else."
Dante sat down.
Dad's voice continued.
"Nico helped Salvi build something beneath Harbor 17. Carlo discovered it. He wanted it destroyed."
The tape warped.
Words stretched.
Then returned.
"Carlo died because of it."
Dante shut his eyes.
"And if they realize you have the key, they will come for you."
The recording clicked off.
I held up the black key.
"The key to what?"
Dante stared at it.
"I think I know."
His phone rang.
NICO BELLINI flashed across the screen.
Neither of us moved.
Dante answered.
"Nico."
A familiar voice filled the room.
"Dante, thank God. I've been trying to reach you."
Dante's expression became unreadable.
"Where are you?"
"Your house."
"Why?"
A pause.
Then Nico said, "Because someone broke in."
Dante's eyes narrowed.
"Anything taken?"
Another pause.
"Your father's safe."
Dante looked at me.
May you like
Then Nico added one sentence.
"And Lena Hart's photograph was inside it."
