Chapter 3 - The Dead Man Who Wasn’t Dead
I hung up on Alessandro.
It was childish.
It was also the only decision available to me that didn't involve screaming.
My father, Daniel Bennett, had died when I was nine.
That was not an opinion.
It was the central fact around which my childhood had been built.
A highway accident.
Rain.
A closed casket.
My mother crying behind a bathroom door because she didn't want me to see.
I remembered all of it.
At 5:30 that evening, I entered my mother's hospital room carrying two coffees and a lie.
“You look better.”
Mom smiled weakly.
“You're terrible at lying.”
“So are you.”
The smile disappeared.
I sat down.
“Is Dad alive?”
Her oxygen machine hissed.
Nothing else moved.
That was my answer.
I stood.
“Claire.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Seventeen years.”
Her eyes filled.
“Sit down.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
One word demolished half my life.
I walked toward the window.
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You told me he died.”
“I thought it was the only way to keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?”
She looked suddenly older.
“From the Romanos.”
That was the moment Alessandro entered.
I turned so fast my chair fell.
“What are you doing here?”
“Claire—”
“My mother just told me my father disappeared because of your family.”
Alessandro stopped.
Victor stood behind him.
My mother stared at Alessandro.
Then whispered a name.
“Antonio.”
Alessandro's face changed.
“My father's name.”
Mom nodded.
“I know.”
Victor closed the door.
Nobody asked him to.
Alessandro moved slowly toward the bed.
“How did you know Antonio Romano?”
Mom looked at me.
“I worked for him.”
My knees nearly failed.
“What?”
“Not the way you're thinking. I was an accountant.”
She swallowed.
“Your father was too.”
The story came in pieces.
Seventeen years earlier, Daniel Bennett had discovered money being stolen from Romano-controlled businesses.
Millions.
Someone had created false accounts and redirected funds.
Antonio Romano suspected a rival organization.
Daniel discovered the truth was worse.
Someone inside Antonio's own circle was responsible.
Before Daniel could identify that person, someone tried to kill him.
The car accident had been staged.
Daniel survived.
My parents made a decision.
He disappeared.
My mother held a funeral.
And nine-year-old Claire Bennett learned to grow up without a father who was still breathing somewhere.
“Who was stealing the money?” I asked.
“I never knew.”
Victor and Alessandro exchanged a look.
I noticed.
“You know.”
Alessandro didn't answer.
“Tell me.”
“Dominic Vale worked for my father then.”
Mom shook her head.
“Daniel never trusted Vale.”
Alessandro looked at her.
“Neither did my father.”
Victor stepped forward.
“Antonio died eight months after Daniel disappeared.”
I knew that story.
Heart attack.
Alessandro had been twenty-one.
He inherited an empire before most men finished college.
Mom looked toward the door.
“Daniel believed Antonio's death wasn't natural.”
The room seemed smaller.
I sat.
“So Vale thinks my father left evidence.”
“Yes,” Mom said.
“And he thinks you have it.”
Her silence lasted too long.
“Mom?”
She looked at me.
“I do.”
Alessandro became perfectly still.
“Where?”
She shook her head.
“I promised Daniel.”
“Evelyn,” Alessandro said, “Dominic Vale has already found Claire.”
“I know.”
“Then whatever promise you made seventeen years ago has expired.”
My mother closed her eyes.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she whispered, “Rosie’s.”
I stared.
“What?”
“The diner.”
Rosa.
The diner.
The cracked floors.
The ancient jukebox.
The place where I'd worked for five years.
Mom looked at me.
“Your father chose it because nobody would ever connect us to it.”
“Connect us?”
“Rosa was Daniel's cousin.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“Rosa Morales?”
“Her maiden name was Bennett.”
Every adult in my childhood had apparently participated in one enormous conspiracy.
I grabbed my coat.
Alessandro blocked the doorway.
“Where are you going?”
“Rosie’s.”
“No.”
“Move.”
“Vale has people watching it.”
“Then I'll call Rosa.”
Victor was already dialing.
Nobody answered.
Again.
Nothing.
My anger became fear.
We drove there together.
I hated every second of it.
The front door of Rosie’s was unlocked.
The lights were off.
A chair lay overturned.
“Rosa?”
I ran inside.
Alessandro caught my arm.
“Stay behind me.”
“Let go.”
“Claire.”
Something in his voice stopped me.
Victor drew a gun.
We moved toward the kitchen.
A noise came from the pantry.
Victor opened the door.
Rosa sat on the floor, wrists tied.
Alive.
I dropped beside her.
“Oh my God.”
“They came looking,” she gasped.
“For what?”
“The jukebox.”
Alessandro turned.
The jukebox had been smashed.
Its glass front lay across the floor.
Inside, wires hung loose.
Rosa shook her head.
“They didn't find it.”
“What?”
She looked at me.
“Your father knew someone might search the jukebox.”
She pointed toward the counter.
“Third stool.”
I crawled beneath it.
There was a small metal plate screwed beneath the seat.
Victor handed me a screwdriver.
Inside was a tiny brass key.
No label.
No explanation.
Only a number engraved into the metal.
Alessandro examined it.
“Safe-deposit box.”
“Which bank?”
Rosa answered.
“First Atlantic.”
Victor swore.
“What?”
Alessandro looked at him.
“First Atlantic was demolished eleven years ago.”
My hope collapsed.
Then Rosa smiled faintly.
“The bank was.”
She looked at me.
“The vault wasn't.”
Twenty minutes later, Victor found the property records.
The old bank basement belonged to Vale Construction.
Of course it did.
But that wasn't the worst part.
A security camera across the street had recorded the men who attacked Rosa.
Victor showed us the footage.
One man was unknown.
The second was Dominic Vale's driver.
The third made Alessandro stop breathing.
I looked at him.
“Who is that?”
Victor didn't answer.
Alessandro did.
“My uncle.”
May you like
His expression hardened.
“The man who raised me after my father died.”
