Chapter 4 - MY BROTHER SURVIVED THE FIRE
I stopped breathing.
The photograph showed Julian outside a roadside motel.
Longer hair.
Beard.
Thin.
But alive.
A newspaper vending box beside him displayed a date clearly enough to read.
March 18.
Three months after the Newark crash.
I looked at Vincent.
“Where did you get this?”
He leaned back in my chair.
The chair my father had used.
The chair no one else sat in.
“Sit down.”
I drew my gun.
“I’ll stand.”
Anthony remained near the door.
Lena had taken Hannah and Grace somewhere safe under police protection.
Only three of us were inside the office.
Vincent looked older than he had yesterday.
Not weaker.
Just tired of pretending.
“You found the locker.”
“Yes.”
“Julian always liked dramatic insurance policies.”
“You knew about Hannah.”
“Eventually.”
“Grace?”
“No.”
I watched his eyes.
“Lie again.”
Something flickered.
He smiled faintly.
“There’s Marco.”
“What happened to Julian?”
Vincent looked at the photograph.
“He tried to disappear.”
“After you tried to kill him.”
“That night was not mine.”
I moved closer.
“Whose body was in the car?”
“A man named Peter Sloan.”
Anthony stiffened.
“Missing person from Jersey City.”
Vincent nodded.
“Petty thief. Similar build.”
Anthony stared.
“You murdered Sloan?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“Julian.”
The word struck like a fist.
I aimed directly at Vincent’s forehead.
“Careful.”
“I’m not insulting him.”
“You just accused my brother of murder.”
“I’m telling you what he wanted everyone to believe.”
I frowned.
Vincent continued.
“Peter Sloan died from an overdose. Julian found him through a doctor who owed our family favors.”
Anthony’s face hardened.
“You staged the body.”
“I helped.”
My grip tightened.
“Why would Julian work with you if he thought you wanted him dead?”
“Because he didn’t know yet.”
The room shifted again.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Julian discovered Belladonna Capital. He thought I was stealing.”
“You were.”
“Yes.”
The admission came easily.
Too easily.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Names?”
“Yes.”
“Routes?”
“Yes.”
“You sold my people.”
Vincent looked at me.
“I saved your empire.”
I almost laughed.
“By betraying it?”
“Your father built a machine that was dying.”
“Don’t.”
“Your legal businesses were expanding. Your other operations were exposed. Federal pressure was coming. Rivals were circling.”
“So you sold information.”
“I sold expendable information.”
“People aren’t expendable.”
“Your father believed otherwise.”
I wanted to shoot him.
Anthony knew it.
He stepped slightly closer.
Vincent continued.
“Julian confronted me six days before the crash.”
“The day he gave Hannah the medal.”
“Yes.”
“He knew.”
“Part of it.”
“Then why fake his death with you?”
“Because I told him something he didn’t know.”
I waited.
Vincent’s eyes hardened.
“Your father didn’t die from a stroke.”
My gun lowered one inch.
Anthony swore quietly.
“What happened?”
“Poison.”
The room became silent.
“Who?”
“Moretti.”
“Which Moretti?”
“Salvatore.”
Dead now.
Three years.
Cancer.
Vincent continued.
“Your father discovered Salvatore had infiltrated several companies. He wanted war.”
“And you?”
“I knew war would kill both of you.”
“You expect gratitude?”
“No.”
“I expect you to understand why I began trading information.”
“To the man who murdered my father?”
“To prevent him from murdering you.”
My voice rose.
“You don’t get to sell my brother’s life and call it protection.”
“I did not kill Julian.”
“Then where is he?”
Vincent looked at the photograph.
“I don’t know.”
That was the first answer that sounded true.
“What happened after the staged crash?”
“Julian planned to leave the country. He believed Hannah would join him later.”
“She was pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“He never reached her.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Vincent’s eyes shifted.
There.
The thing he still did not want to say.
“Why?”
“Someone intercepted him.”
“Who?”
“I believed Moretti.”
“Believed?”
“For a year.”
“And now?”
Vincent reached into his coat slowly.
I raised my weapon.
He removed a second photograph.
Placed it on the desk.
Julian again.
Bound to a chair.
Bruised.
A newspaper on his lap.
The date was six months after his supposed death.
Hannah would have been nearly ready to give birth.
On the back, written in black ink:
THE YOUNGER BROTHER TALKS OR THE OLDER ONE BLEEDS.
I stared.
“Who sent this?”
Vincent answered.
“Someone using your father’s old private cipher.”
Only five people had known it.
My father.
My mother.
Vincent.
Me.
Julian.
My mother had been bedridden after Julian’s funeral.
Julian was the prisoner.
My father was dead.
Which left—
“You.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Or you.”
Anthony looked at me.
I laughed without humor.
“That’s the game?”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“Someone wanted me to believe you had taken him.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It did if they wanted Julian and me turned against you.”
“Who had access to the cipher?”
“Your father kept code sheets.”
“In his study.”
“Yes.”
My father’s study had been sealed after his death.
Only one person besides Vincent and me had access.
Family attorney Leonard Shaw.
The man who administered the estate.
The man who had approved Vincent’s authority after Julian’s crash.
My stomach tightened.
“Leonard.”
Vincent said nothing.
Anthony immediately pulled out his phone.
I stopped him.
“Wait.”
Anthony stared.
“You think Shaw has Julian?”
“I think we confirm before he knows we suspect him.”
Vincent almost smiled.
“You’re finally thinking.”
I turned my gun toward him again.
“Do not become comfortable.”
“I’m not asking forgiveness.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking you to understand I kept Julian alive as long as I could.”
“By staging his death?”
“Yes.”
“By stealing from me?”
“Yes.”
“By sending armed men after Hannah?”
Vincent’s face changed.
“I sent them to bring her to me.”
“They were told not to let her speak.”
“I did not say kill her.”
“Men hear what powerful people leave unsaid.”
Vincent looked away.
For the first time, shame reached him.
Good.
I wanted it to.
Anthony stepped forward.
“If Leonard Shaw has been behind any part of this, we need evidence.”
I pointed toward Julian’s hard drive sitting inside Anthony’s evidence bag.
“We have six years of it.”
Vincent shook his head.
“You have financial records.”
“What else?”
“Julian found something about Shaw.”
My patience snapped.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve known eighteen months.”
“And spent eighteen months trying to find Julian before whoever had him realized Grace existed.”
I went still.
“You knew Hannah was pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you find her?”
“Julian hid her well.”
“Yet she worked inside my house for two years.”
Vincent actually looked embarrassed.
Anthony laughed once.
“Hell of a criminal mastermind.”
I nearly smiled.
Almost.
Then my office phone rang.
Nobody moved.
It rang again.
I answered on speaker.
“Caruso.”
Leonard Shaw’s voice.
“Marco.”
Anthony and Vincent looked at each other.
I kept my voice calm.
“Leonard.”
“I’ve heard there’s been some trouble at the estate.”
“Security misunderstanding.”
“Vincent?”
“He’s here.”
Silence.
Very small.
But there.
“What’s going on?”
“I found something of Julian’s.”
Vincent stared at me.
Leonard’s voice softened.
“That must be difficult.”
“A locker.”
This time the silence was longer.
Anthony’s eyes widened.
I continued.
“Nothing important.”
“What was inside?”
There.
Too fast.
Too interested.
I smiled.
“Why?”
“I’m executor on several family instruments. If Julian left documents—”
“Old photographs.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Vincent mouthed liar.
I ignored him.
Leonard exhaled.
“Good.”
Good.
Not I’m sorry.
Not I wish there were answers.
Good.
Then he said, “Marco, I need to see you tonight.”
“Why?”
“There’s a trust issue involving Julian’s estate.”
“What kind?”
“If he fathered a child before death, succession changes.”
My blood turned cold.
He knew.
I looked at Anthony.
Leonard continued.
“I’ve been contacted by someone claiming there’s a baby.”
Vincent stood.
“How?”
“I’d rather explain in person.”
I made my decision.
“Your office?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Your father’s old warehouse in Red Hook.”
Every instinct screamed trap.
I smiled.
“Midnight.”
“I’ll be there.”
He ended the call.
Anthony immediately said, “Absolutely not.”
Vincent said, “It’s a trap.”
I looked at them.
“You two agreeing is already disturbing.”
Anthony folded his arms.
“We do this with police.”
“No.”
“Marco.”
“If Leonard has Julian alive, police lights guarantee we never find him.”
“You do not know Julian is alive.”
I looked at the two photographs.
Three months after the crash.
Six months after.
Twelve months remained unaccounted for.
Hope was becoming dangerous.
But Grace existed.
Julian had planned everything around protecting her.
If there was even a chance—
“I’m going.”
Vincent stood.
“So am I.”
I stared.
“You’re under arrest as soon as Anthony decides what charges fit.”
Vincent nodded.
“Probably.”
“Then why?”
His expression changed.
“Because when your father died, I promised your mother neither of her sons would go into the ground before me.”
My anger returned.
“You already watched me bury one.”
Vincent looked at Julian’s photograph.
“Yes.”
His voice cracked for the first time.
“And if there is a chance I can undo that mistake, you’ll have to shoot me to stop me.”
At 11:58 that night, the Red Hook warehouse looked abandoned.
No cars.
No lights.
I entered through the north loading door.
Anthony had officers positioned three blocks away.
Vincent came with me.
Leonard Shaw waited alone beneath one hanging bulb.
He wore a camel coat.
No visible weapon.
He looked exactly as he had my entire life.
Polished.
Patient.
Forgettable when he wanted to be.
“Marco.”
“Leonard.”
His eyes moved to Vincent.
“Interesting.”
Vincent said nothing.
I stepped forward.
“Where’s Julian?”
Leonard’s face remained calm.
“Dead.”
“Wrong answer.”
I threw the photograph onto a crate.
Leonard looked at it.
No surprise.
That was all I needed.
“You knew.”
He sighed.
“I wondered how long it would take.”
My hand moved toward my gun.
Vincent stopped me.
Leonard smiled.
“You always were predictable, Marco.”
“Where is my brother?”
“Closer than you think.”
I stared.
Leonard looked toward the dark upper level.
A light switched on.
Someone stood behind the railing.
Thin.
Bearded.
One hand gripping the metal because he seemed barely strong enough to stand.
My entire body stopped.
“Marco?”
The voice.
Eighteen months vanished.
I was sixteen again.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Two brothers on a fire escape.
“Julian.”
He smiled weakly.
May you like
“Hey, big brother.”
Then Leonard Shaw drew a pistol and pressed it against Julian’s ribs.
