Chapter 4 - The Secret My Father Buried
“That’s impossible.”
Nobody answered.
I looked from Marco to Dante.
“Say something.”
Dante took the phone from Marco.
Daniel Keene had been found inside an abandoned garage in Queens, beaten but alive.
He had given Dante’s men one message.
Ask Elena about her father.
“My father teaches high school history.”
Dante’s eyes stayed on me.
“Does he?”
The question made me angry.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Twenty-four years.”
“And before that?”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
My father never talked about before.
I knew he had grown up in New York.
Worked “finance.”
Met my mother.
Moved to Connecticut.
That was it.
Dante saw the uncertainty.
“Elena.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m asking, not accusing.”
“Well, stop asking.”
My phone rang.
Dad.
I answered instantly.
“Dad?”
“Elena.”
His voice sounded wrong.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Your mother’s here.”
“Why are armed men outside your house?”
I looked at Dante.
“Protection.”
Silence.
Then my father said something that changed everything.
“Is Dante Rossi with you?”
I stopped breathing.
“How do you know that name?”
Another silence.
Longer.
“Dad?”
“Put him on.”
I slowly handed Dante the phone.
Dante listened.
His expression transformed.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“We’ll be there.”
He hung up.
“What did he say?”
Dante looked at me.
“Your father wants to talk.”
The drive to Connecticut took less than ninety minutes.
It felt like nine hours.
My father was waiting in the kitchen.
Thomas Voss looked exactly as he always had.
Gray sweater.
Reading glasses.
Coffee mug.
Except there was a gun on the table.
My mother sat nearby, pale.
I stared at it.
“Dad?”
He removed his glasses.
“My name wasn’t always Thomas Voss.”
My stomach tightened.
“It was Tomaso Vassari.”
Dante went still.
Apparently the name meant something.
To me, it meant nothing.
My father continued.
“Thirty years ago, I worked for Dante’s father.”
I looked at Dante.
He said nothing.
“What kind of work?”
Dad’s expression answered before his mouth did.
“No.”
“Elena—”
“No.”
“I handled financial records.”
“For the mafia?”
My mother reached for me.
I stepped away.
Dad continued.
“I left before you were born.”
“Why?”
“Because I discovered something.”
Dante moved closer.
“What?”
My father looked at him.
“Your father wasn’t betrayed by the Colombians.”
Dante’s entire body became still.
“What did you say?”
“Antonio Rossi’s death was arranged from inside his own organization.”
Dante’s voice dropped.
“By whom?”
“I never knew.”
Dad walked toward a cabinet.
He removed an old cookbook.
Inside was a key.
“For twenty-eight years, I’ve kept evidence.”
I stared at him.
“You lied to me my entire life.”
“I gave you a life.”
“You gave me somebody else’s life.”
His face crumpled.
For the first time, my father looked old.
“I wanted you nowhere near this.”
“Yet men shot up my workplace.”
“I know.”
His voice broke.
“And that is my fault.”
The key belonged to a safe-deposit box in Manhattan.
Inside, Dad explained, were ledgers connecting old Rossi businesses to a network of shell corporations.
More importantly, there was a cassette recording.
A conversation between Antonio Rossi and someone he trusted.
“Why didn’t you give it to the police?”
Dad laughed bitterly.
“Because one of the men mentioned on that tape became a police commander.”
The room fell silent.
Detective Hall flashed through my mind.
Police entering Dante’s penthouse.
Fake officers entering my apartment.
“How did Volkov find out?”
“I don’t know.”
Dante finally spoke.
“Keene.”
My father nodded.
“He audited one of the dormant shell companies. He must have found the trail.”
“And Elena?”
Dad’s eyes closed briefly.
“The account was designed to transfer ownership if I died.”
“To whom?”
Nobody needed to answer.
Me.
I felt sick.
“So those men weren’t looking for a witness.”
Dante’s voice was quiet.
“No.”
“They need me because legally I control something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Dad looked toward Dante.
Dante understood first.
“The Vassari trust.”
My father nodded.
“Three hundred million dollars.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the number was absurd.
“I have eleven hundred dollars in checking.”
“You technically control considerably more.”
“Wonderful.”
I paced toward the window.
Everything I understood about my life had been ripped apart in twenty-four hours.
Then a red dot appeared on the wall.
Dante saw it first.
“Elena, down!”
He hit me as the window exploded.
My mother screamed.
Gunfire tore through the kitchen.
Dante dragged me behind the island.
His men returned fire.
My father crawled toward Mom.
Then he jerked.
Blood appeared across his shirt.
“Dad!”
I tried to move.
Dante held me.
“Stay down!”
“That’s my father!”
Another burst shattered the cabinets.
Then the attackers’ vehicle screamed away.
Silence returned.
I crawled to Dad.
Blood soaked my hands.
“No, no, no.”
His eyes found mine.
“Elena.”
“Don’t talk.”
“The key.”
“I have it.”
“Trust…”
His eyes shifted toward Dante.
Dante knelt beside us.
My father gripped his sleeve.
“Trust nobody.”
Then his hand fell.
“Dad?”
He was still breathing.
Barely.
The ambulance came quickly.
Doctors saved him.
But while he was in surgery, Dante received another message.
A photograph.
The Manhattan bank where the safe-deposit box was stored.
Beneath it were six words.
BRING ELENA. COME ALONE. MIDNIGHT.
Dante deleted it.
Too late.
I had seen.
“I’m going.”
“No.”
“It belongs to me.”
“It’s a trap.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re not going.”
I turned toward him.
“My father was shot because everyone keeps deciding what I’m allowed to know.”
“Elena—”
“No more.”
For several seconds, Dante stared at me.
Then he nodded once.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“We go together.”
“The message says alone.”
May you like
A cold smile touched his face.
“I’ve never been particularly good at following instructions.”
