Chapter 3 - THE TRAITOR AT THE TABLE
Deari did not evacuate through the obvious route.
He carried Kalista through a narrow maintenance tunnel hidden behind the basement wine cellar while Leonardo and six men held the upper floor.
The tunnel ended inside an abandoned parking garage two blocks away.
A black sedan waited.
Deari placed Kalista carefully in the back seat.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere only three people know exists.”
Kalista looked at him.
“Considering someone planted a tracker beside my bed, that isn’t reassuring.”
“Make it two people.”
Deari called Leonardo.
“Who had basement access?”
“Everyone on the inner rotation.”
“Names.”
Leonardo gave him seven.
Deari memorized them.
“No one leaves the building.”
“You think it’s one of ours?”
“I know it is.”
Deari ended the call.
Twenty minutes later, the skyline disappeared behind them.
Their destination was an old brick house near the lake in Evanston.
No guards stood outside.
No cameras were visible.
The interior was unexpectedly ordinary.
A faded sofa.
Bookshelves.
An upright piano.
Family photographs had been removed, leaving pale rectangles on the walls.
Kalista noticed Deari looking at them.
“What is this place?”
“My mother’s.”
The answer surprised her.
“Where is she?”
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
Deari showed her to a bedroom and brought medical supplies.
When he began replacing the dressing over her wound, Kalista watched his hands.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Too many times.”
“You don’t seem like someone who bandages people.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She laughed despite herself.
Pain immediately punished her.
Deari’s mouth twitched.
“That was almost a joke.”
“Don’t tell Leonardo. He’ll lose respect for me.”
For the first time since Thomas died, Kalista felt something dangerously close to safety.
It frightened her more than the gunfire.
That evening, Deari opened the ledger.
Kalista sat across from him at the kitchen table.
Most entries were coded.
But Kalista understood the accounting architecture.
“These aren’t expenses,” she said. “They’re payments.”
“To whom?”
“Judges. Contractors. Police officers. Customs officials.”
Deari leaned closer.
Kalista turned another page.
Then stopped.
A recurring sequence appeared every second Friday.
C-17.
Payments totaling nearly $400,000 over two years.
Deari’s expression changed.
“You recognize it.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
He met her eyes.
“C-17 is an internal Castellano designation.”
“For what?”
“A person.”
Kalista slowly closed the ledger.
“Then Thomas was right.”
Deari looked toward the dark window.
“There is a traitor.”
His phone rang.
Leonardo.
Deari answered.
“We found the tracker installation footage.”
“And?”
A pause.
“It was Marco.”
Deari went completely still.
Kalista had seen Marco upstairs—a young guard, perhaps twenty-five.
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
Deari stood.
“When?”
“Eleven minutes before the attack.”
“Find him.”
Another pause.
“Deari, there’s more.”
Leonardo’s voice lowered.
“Marco received a call before disappearing. The number belongs to Patrick Rourke.”
Deari ended the call.
Kalista studied him.
“You trusted Marco?”
“I trusted his father.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
She understood from his expression that Deari had just learned something painful about leadership.
You could command loyalty.
You could purchase silence.
But trust could not be inherited.
A noise came from the porch.
Deari’s hand moved immediately toward his weapon.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Two knocks.
Deari relaxed slightly.
“Doctor.”
Aris entered carrying a medical bag.
He examined Kalista and confirmed the stitches were holding.
“You’re fortunate,” he said. “Another centimeter and we would be having a very different conversation.”
After Aris left, Kalista found Deari standing alone beside the lake-facing window.
Snow had begun falling.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I tried.”
“And?”
“I keep seeing Thomas.”
Deari said nothing.
Kalista stood beside him.
“He called me the night he died.”
Deari looked at her.
“I ignored it.”
“Why?”
“We had argued. He wanted me to leave Chicago. I told him he was paranoid.”
Her voice cracked.
“He called three times.”
Deari’s expression softened.
“I didn’t answer.”
Kalista looked down.
“So maybe we’re both protecting the ledger for the same reason.”
“Guilt?”
“Because neither of us can change the call we didn’t answer.”
For several seconds, they simply stood together.
Then Deari’s phone vibrated.
A photograph appeared.
He opened it.
His face hardened.
“What?”
He handed Kalista the phone.
The image showed Marco sitting in a chair.
Dead.
A handwritten card had been pinned to his shirt.
ONE TRAITOR DOWN.
Kalista’s stomach tightened.
“He killed his own informant?”
Deari zoomed in.
“No.”
“What?”
Deari pointed at Marco’s wrist.
A watch was visible.
Engraved on its silver clasp were two letters.
L.C.
Leonardo Castellano.
Kalista looked up.
Deari’s voice became very quiet.
May you like
“That watch belonged to my brother.”
And suddenly the list of suspects became much smaller.
