Chapter 4 - The Photograph in Carlo's Safe
Dante ended the call without telling Nico where we were.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then he walked to the kitchen counter and placed both hands against it.
I had seen Dante angry.
Cold anger.
The kind that turned his voice quieter.
This was different.
This looked personal.
"My photograph?" I said.
He nodded.
"How old?"
"Nico didn't say."
"Why would your father have a picture of me?"
Dante turned.
"You tell me."
"I was nineteen when Carlo died."
"Did you know him?"
"No."
"Ever meet him?"
"Not that I remember."
Tommy stirred on the sofa but didn't wake.
I thought about Dad.
Secrets inside secrets.
I was beginning to hate the dead for leaving puzzles instead of answers.
"We go to your house," I said.
"No."
"That safe might explain everything."
"It might also be bait."
"Nico doesn't know we're suspicious."
"He knows I'm not at home."
"So?"
"So Nico knows my routines. He knows where I should be at this hour."
Dante picked up the ledger.
"If he betrayed me, he's already calculating."
"Then we calculate faster."
His gaze settled on me.
"I understand why you drive now."
"What does that mean?"
"You don't freeze."
"I freeze."
"I haven't seen it."
"Then you haven't been paying attention."
He had no idea.
I froze every time Tommy didn't answer his phone.
Every time the garage received another foreclosure notice.
Every time I drove Dante into a meeting and wondered whether I would be transporting a corpse ten minutes later.
Courage wasn't the absence of fear.
Sometimes it was simply being too tired to let fear make decisions.
We left Tommy with one of Dante's most trusted men, a quiet older soldier named Marco who arrived without questions.
Then Dante and I changed vehicles twice.
By dawn, we were parked one block from his Beacon Hill townhouse.
Elegant brick.
Black shutters.
White trim.
The kind of place that appeared in architectural magazines.
I looked at him.
"You live here?"
"You sound disappointed."
"I expected gargoyles."
"There are two in the back."
I stared.
He almost smiled.
"You're joking."
"Am I?"
We entered through the neighboring building.
Dante apparently owned that too.
A concealed passage connected the basements.
"Normal people use doors," I whispered.
"Normal people aren't followed as often."
The house had been searched.
Not ransacked.
Professionally searched.
Drawers opened.
Books moved.
Painting frames shifted.
The safe was hidden behind a wine cabinet.
Its door hung open.
Empty.
Nico stood beside it.
He turned when we entered.
Relief crossed his face.
"Lena?"
He looked genuinely surprised.
Too genuinely?
I didn't know anymore.
Nico Bellini was forty-three.
Silver beginning at his temples.
Always perfectly dressed.
Always polite to me.
He was the one who interviewed me for the driving job.
Asked whether I could keep my mouth shut.
Asked whether I had family.
I told him no.
He hired me anyway.
"Why is she here?" Nico asked.
Dante removed his coat.
"She drove me."
Nico looked at my clothes.
Grease-stained hoodie.
Work boots.
Definitely not my usual uniform.
"You dress differently for overtime?"
"Long night."
His eyes lingered one second too long.
Dante noticed.
"Show me."
Nico led us toward the safe.
"They took cash, documents, Carlo's old watch, and the envelope."
"What envelope?"
"The one with the photograph."
Dante's voice stayed calm.
"What photograph?"
Nico looked at me.
"Lena."
I forced myself not to react.
"Why was my picture in Carlo Moretti's safe?"
"I don't know."
My father's tape replayed in my mind.
Never trust Nico Bellini.
"Describe it."
"You were younger. Standing beside a race car."
That hit me.
I remembered the picture.
Dad took it at Thompson Speedway when I was eighteen.
I stood beside his blue Camaro, holding a trophy nearly as tall as I was.
Only three copies existed.
One belonged to me.
One belonged to Dad.
The third had been mailed to someone.
I never knew who.
"When did Carlo get it?"
Nico shook his head.
"It was already there after he died."
"Why didn't Dante know?"
"I didn't think it mattered."
Dante's gaze turned sharp.
"My father keeps a photograph of a teenage girl in his safe and you don't think it matters?"
"Carlo kept dozens of strange things."
"Not in that safe."
Nico's face changed.
Tiny.
But visible.
Dante stepped closer.
"You knew my father knew Daniel Hart."
Silence.
There it was.
Nico looked at me.
Then Dante.
"Who told you?"
"Answer."
Nico exhaled.
"Yes."
"How?"
"They drove together years ago."
"You told me you'd never met Hart."
"I lied."
"Why?"
"Because Carlo asked me to."
The room changed.
Dante's posture became still.
Dangerously still.
"Why would my father ask you to lie?"
"To protect her."
Nico pointed at me.
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
"Protect me from what?"
Nico rubbed his jaw.
"Your father took something."
"The ledger?"
His eyes snapped toward me.
Too fast.
I saw it.
Dante saw it.
"You know about the ledger," I said.
Nico realized his mistake.
"Where is it?"
Dante stepped between us.
"Wrong question."
Nico slowly raised his hands.
"Dante, listen."
"I'm listening."
"Carlo and Daniel found evidence Salvi had been buying federal agents, judges, customs officers. It was bigger than street business. Bigger than us."
"Us?" Dante said.
"Don't pretend you don't understand."
Nico's voice hardened.
"We were all in it."
"Did you kill Daniel Hart?"
I stopped breathing.
Nico looked at me.
"No."
"Did Salvi?"
"I don't know."
"Did you kill my father?"
Nico's eyes flashed.
"No."
"Did Salvi?"
Again:
"I don't know."
Dante took one step.
Nico backed into the wall.
"Twenty-five years," Dante said. "You owe me better than I don't know."
Nico swallowed.
"Carlo was planning to testify."
Silence.
Even I understood how impossible that sounded.
Carlo Moretti.
Mafia boss.
Federal testimony.
Dante stared at him.
"Against who?"
"Salvi. Corrupt agents. Everybody tied to Harbor 17."
"And you?"
Nico looked away.
"Possibly."
There it was.
The betrayal wasn't simple.
Nico hadn't necessarily killed Carlo.
But Carlo had been willing to sacrifice him.
Maybe Nico had known.
Maybe that was enough.
"What is Harbor 17?" I asked.
Nico looked at Dante.
Dante said, "Tell her."
"A decommissioned customs warehouse."
"What's underneath it?"
Nico hesitated.
I remembered Dad's tape.
Nico helped Salvi build something beneath Harbor 17.
"An archive," Nico finally said.
"Of what?"
"Everything."
Dante's expression darkened.
"Records?"
"Records. Audio. Video. Bank transfers. Names."
"Blackmail."
Nico nodded.
"Salvi kept insurance on everyone."
"And the key?" I asked.
Nico stared at me.
"You have it."
Not a question.
I said nothing.
He closed his eyes.
"Then this is worse than I thought."
Dante moved closer.
"What does it open?"
"The archive."
My pulse quickened.
"Why would Dad have it?"
"Because your father stole it the night Carlo died."
The room went silent.
Nico continued.
"Carlo told Daniel to take the key and disappear. Daniel refused. He said he had children."
Tommy and me.
"He kept working at the garage. Pretended nothing happened. Salvi watched him for years."
"Then why kill him six years ago?"
Nico looked at me with something like regret.
"Because Daniel tried to reopen Harbor 17."
My throat tightened.
"What was he looking for?"
Nico didn't answer.
Dante did.
"My father's confession."
Nico stared at him.
Dante continued.
"I remember him recording something two nights before he died."
He looked toward the empty safe.
"I thought it was estate planning."
Nico shook his head.
"It wasn't."
"What did he confess?"
"Enough to destroy Salvi."
"And you."
Nico looked away.
"Yes."
I studied him.
"You warned Salvi."
"No."
"Then how did Salvi know?"
"I don't know."
"Stop saying that."
My voice cracked.
"My father died seventeen minutes after leaving Harbor 17. You were there. Salvi was there. Dad wrote it down. So stop telling me you don't know."
Nico's face went pale.
"Dante."
Dante didn't help him.
Finally Nico whispered, "Daniel left alive."
"Who followed him?"
"I don't know."
I moved closer.
"Think harder."
Nico stared at me for a long moment.
Then something broke in his expression.
"There was another car."
"What car?"
"Federal plates."
Dante's face tightened.
"Which agency?"
"FBI."
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
Federal agents.
My father hadn't only been trapped between two criminal organizations.
Someone wearing a badge had followed him before his death.
"Name," Dante said.
Nico shook his head.
"I never saw him clearly."
"Name."
"I don't—"
The front door opened downstairs.
All three of us froze.
Nico whispered, "Did you bring anyone?"
Dante drew his pistol.
"No."
Footsteps entered the foyer.
One person.
Slow.
Then a man's voice carried up the staircase.
"Dante?"
Nico's face drained of color.
I recognized the voice from television.
So did Dante.
May you like
FBI Special Agent Adrian Cole walked into the house.
And he called my father's name.
