Chapter 3 - THE FIRST BULLET
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For one long second, neither man moved.
Thomas looked at Matteo's phone, then at the open drawer containing Serena's ring.
“Bad time?” he asked.
Matteo closed the drawer.
“Why are you carrying a gun in my office?”
Thomas glanced at the weapon beneath his jacket.
“Because two of our men were found dead behind the club. Someone's making a statement.”
“Who?”
“If I knew, I wouldn't be standing here.”
Matteo studied the face of the man he had called brother for nearly twenty years.
The message remained on his phone.
Stop trusting the man who sleeps outside your door.
Thomas had lived in the guest suite of Matteo's penthouse for almost a year, ostensibly because the security arrangement made them harder to reach separately.
Matteo had never questioned it.
Now, every familiar detail seemed capable of concealing a second meaning.
“Did you find Serena?” Matteo asked.
Thomas's jaw tightened.
“No.”
“You didn't ask why I wanted you to.”
“Because I assumed you were still looking for her.”
Matteo leaned against his desk.
“Suppose I told you someone sent me a photograph of her with Gregory Walsh.”
“Then I'd tell you she was working with the FBI.”
“You're certain?”
“I saw the evidence.”
“The same evidence you gave me two months ago?”
Thomas's expression cooled.
“What's this really about?”
Matteo could have shown him the message. He could have demanded an explanation. Instead, he slid the phone into his pocket.
“I want every employee's access logs from the last ninety days.”
“That's excessive.”
“Then it should be easy to provide them.”
Thomas stared at him.
For the first time in years, something unspoken passed between them. Neither man was willing to name it.
Finally, Thomas nodded and left.
Matteo waited until the door closed before calling his security chief.
“Don't go to Boston. Don't tell Thomas anything. Pull the original files from the Brooklyn seizures, including the container numbers and the first reports filed by the dock supervisors.”
“Understood.”
“And find out who accessed our internal records before the raids.”
The next morning, Matteo received the first useful answer.
The shipping documents had been altered forty-eight hours before the containers were seized.
The changes had been made through an administrative account assigned to Thomas's office.
There was a plausible explanation. Thomas supervised operations. He had legitimate access to the records.
But there was a second problem.
The altered files contained a routing code that Serena had flagged in a memorandum three weeks before her dismissal.
A code associated with the Delaware shell company.
The same mistake she had tried to explain.
Matteo read the memorandum twice.
Her handwriting filled the margins. She had circled a series of transfers and written one sentence in red ink:
Someone is copying the pattern without understanding the system.
Beneath it was a second note.
Do not confront Thomas until you know who is protecting him.
Matteo's stomach tightened.
The memorandum had never appeared in the folder Thomas gave him.
Someone had removed it.
He called Arthur.
“I need you to tell me everything Serena said about the Delaware company.”
Arthur went silent.
“Arthur.”
“She said it wasn't merely a mistake. It was bait.”
“Bait for whom?”
“For you.”
Matteo's fingers tightened around the phone.
Arthur continued. “Miss Gallagher believed someone wanted you to discover a false trail leading toward the federal investigation. She said the person behind it had access to your private records, knew your routines, and understood exactly how you reacted when you felt cornered.”
“And you didn't tell me this?”
“She asked me not to. She said if she disappeared, I should wait until you began asking the right questions.”
Matteo closed his eyes.
“What else?”
“She left a sealed envelope with me.”
“Where is it?”
“My apartment. I never opened it.”
“Bring it to the club. Now.”
Twenty minutes later, Arthur entered through the service entrance carrying a plain white envelope.
Matteo opened it.
Inside was a photograph of a small brass key, a handwritten note, and a list of dates.
The note contained only one sentence.
If Thomas is still beside you, the clock has already started.
The dates corresponded to three major events in the syndicate's history: a warehouse fire, the death of Matteo's father, and a failed assassination attempt that had left Matteo's cousin dead.
Matteo stared at the last date.
The assassination attempt had occurred seven years earlier.
Thomas had been the only person who knew Matteo would be at the restaurant that night.
“What's the key for?” Matteo asked.
Arthur shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“Did Serena say anything else?”
Arthur hesitated.
“She said you would eventually have to choose between saving your organization and saving the person who built it.”
Before Matteo could answer, the lights went out.
A sharp crack split the corridor.
Arthur fell against the wall.
Matteo drew his weapon and pulled the accountant behind a stone pillar. Another shot struck the glass office door, scattering fragments across the floor.
“Stay down!”
Footsteps thundered outside.
Matteo moved toward the service exit, firing once at a shadow crossing the doorway. A figure stumbled but disappeared into the stairwell.
Then silence.
When the emergency lights came on, Arthur was clutching his shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers.
Matteo called for a medic.
His phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
He answered without speaking.
A woman's voice emerged, quiet and unmistakable.
“Matteo?”
Every muscle in his body went still.
“Serena.”
A pause.
“You shouldn't have started looking for me.”
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere you can't protect me.”
“Someone just tried to kill Arthur.”
“I know.”
Matteo gripped the phone.
“How?”
“Because they were trying to kill me first.”
His throat tightened.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Serena, listen to me. I was wrong.”
The silence that followed was worse than any accusation.
“You don't get to say that and expect everything to disappear,” she whispered.
“I don't.”
“You threw me away because a man you trusted handed you a folder. You didn't ask for the original records. You didn't call my brother. You didn't give me ten minutes to prove the truth.”
“I know.”
“No, Matteo. You know now. That's different.”
He forced himself to breathe.
“Tell me what you need.”
“Stop the next transfer.”
“Which transfer?”
“Midnight. A company called Northstar Holdings. If that money leaves the country, people will die.”
“Where are you?”
“That's still the wrong question.”
The call ended.
Matteo looked at the clock.
11:17 P.M.
Arthur, pale and shaking, lifted his head.
“Northstar,” he whispered. “That's not one of our companies.”
Matteo turned.
“Then whose is it?”
Arthur stared at the floor.
“Thomas Weaver's.”
Matteo reached for his phone.
A new message appeared before he could dial.
It contained a photograph of Thomas standing beside a black car.
Behind him, a second figure emerged from the darkness.
Matteo recognized the face immediately.
May you like
His father.
A man who had been buried seven years earlier.
