Chapter 6 - A Dance with the Devil
Matthew invited Clara to meet him at a private office in Century City.
She agreed on one condition: no security guards inside the room, no hidden recording devices, and no answers that began with trust me.
He accepted every condition.
When Clara arrived, she wore a simple black dress and carried a notebook.
Matthew noticed that she looked tired.
He also noticed the faint red marks around her eyes.
He didn't comment on either.
On the table between them lay copies of Anthony's financial records, the photograph from her apartment, and a letter written in her father's handwriting.
Clara reached for the letter.
Her fingers trembled.
The first line read:
If you're reading this, Clara, then someone has finally found the trail I hoped would remain buried.
She stopped.
Matthew moved his chair back, giving her room.
She read the rest in silence.
Frank Esposito had discovered discrepancies in a series of shipping payments. He had warned Anthony that the transactions appeared designed to conceal the movement of money through legitimate businesses.
Anthony had promised to investigate.
Frank's letter contained no accusation of murder, no confession, and no proof of what had happened to him.
But the final paragraph made Clara's stomach turn.
If anything happens to me, do not assume it was an accident. There are good people who become dangerous when they are afraid of losing what they built. There are dangerous people who still know the difference between right and wrong. Learn which is which before you trust anyone.
Clara put the letter down.
"Your brother knew my father was in danger."
Matthew's voice was quiet.
"Apparently."
"And you didn't know any of this?"
"No."
"How convenient."
He accepted the accusation.
"I should have investigated his death more thoroughly."
"Why didn't you?"
Matthew looked away.
"Because Anthony was dead, and I had an organization to keep from tearing itself apart. I believed the police investigation had found what it could."
"Or you needed to believe that."
He met her eyes.
"Yes."
The admission hung between them.
Clara had expected arrogance. She had expected threats and carefully polished excuses.
She hadn't expected a man capable of admitting that grief had made him cowardly.
It didn't make him innocent.
But it made him human.
They spent two hours examining the records.
Clara's father's work was meticulous. He had identified duplicate invoices, payments to companies that appeared to have no employees, and transfers approved with a signature that differed subtly from Anthony's.
One company appeared repeatedly: Westbridge Logistics.
Another was connected to Gavin Dunmore.
Matthew leaned forward.
"That gives us a connection between Gavin and the people moving the money."
"Not proof that he killed your brother."
"No."
"And if you accuse him without proof, he'll destroy the evidence and call you a criminal."
Matthew gave a dry smile.
"He's unlikely to call me a criminal as if it's news."
Clara almost laughed.
The sound surprised them both.
For a moment, the room felt ordinary.
Then Matthew's phone rang.
Luca reported that a witness connected to Westbridge had agreed to meet them that evening at a charity auction held at a private Beverly Hills club.
Clara closed her notebook.
"I'm coming."
"No."
She stared at him.
"That was quick."
"The people attending that auction include men who would consider you a liability simply because you know about the ledger."
"Then they should be worried about what I know, not what I look like."
"This isn't about your appearance."
"Good. Because I'm beginning to suspect you have a habit of deciding that fear gives you the right to make choices for everyone else."
Matthew's jaw tightened.
He wanted to argue.
Instead, he asked, "What do you propose?"
"I attend as a guest. I speak to the witness. You don't introduce me as someone you own, protect, or control."
"I have never said you were mine."
"You don't have to. People make assumptions when a man like you wraps his jacket around a woman in front of three hundred witnesses."
Matthew looked at her for a long moment.
"Then we'll make sure they understand you came by choice."
The auction was held in a private club overlooking the city.
Clara wore a midnight-blue gown borrowed from a colleague, and Matthew arrived in a black tuxedo.
When they entered together, the room quieted.
"Are you certain?" he asked.
Clara lifted her chin.
"I've faced a room full of wealthy people before. They haven't improved with practice."
This time, Matthew smiled.
They found the witness near the bar.
His name was Peter Lang, a former accountant who had worked for Westbridge Logistics. He was nervous, sweating through his collar, and repeatedly glancing toward the entrance.
"I have information about Anthony Sacco," he whispered. "But I need protection."
Matthew promised to arrange a meeting with an attorney and the appropriate investigators.
Peter shook his head.
"Not the police. Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because the person who authorized the transfers has friends in law enforcement."
Before Peter could say more, a man approached them.
Richard Hale.
Matthew's chief financial officer.
"Matthew," Richard said pleasantly. "I didn't expect to see you here."
Matthew's expression gave nothing away.
"Richard. You know Peter Lang?"
Richard looked at the accountant.
For a fraction of a second, his face betrayed recognition.
Then he smiled.
"Of course. We worked together years ago."
Peter went white.
Clara noticed.
She also noticed Richard's right hand disappear into his jacket pocket.
"Mr. Hale," she said, stepping slightly between the men, "Peter was just telling us something important."
Richard's smile never changed.
"Then perhaps you should allow him to finish."
He turned toward Matthew.
"Alone."
Matthew's eyes narrowed.
"No."
Richard's smile vanished.
For the first time, Clara saw something beneath the polished manners.
Hatred.
It lasted only a second.
Then the lights went out.
A crash sounded near the ballroom doors.
Someone screamed.
When the emergency lights flickered on, Peter Lang was gone.
So was Richard Hale.
On the table where Peter had been standing lay a small white envelope.
Inside was a single photograph.
Anthony Sacco stood beside Frank Esposito outside a warehouse.
On the back, in fresh black ink, were six words.
ASK YOUR UNCLE WHO SIGNED THE ORDER.
Matthew read the message.
Then he slowly turned toward the man who had raised him after his father's death.
May you like
His uncle, Salvatore Sacco, was standing across the room.
Watching them.
