Chapter 2 - THE EMPTY SAFE AND THE SMOKING GUN
Vincent didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
The look in his eyes was terrifying enough to make the remaining dinner guests scramble backward. He dropped his napkin, pushed past the heavy oak chairs, and sprinted toward the grand staircase.
I followed him.
I couldn't help it. Margaret was trembling so violently she could barely stand, and I wrapped my arm around her frail shoulders, guiding her up the stairs behind her son.
When we reached the second-floor landing, the door to Margaret’s bedroom was wide open.
Inside, the room had been torn apart.
Her beautiful floral quilts were thrown on the floor. Her dresser drawers were pulled out, her simple cotton nightgowns scattered across the rug.
And standing in the center of the room was Michael Morelli.
He was thirty-eight. Sharper features than Vincent. Wearing a tailored gray suit and a smug expression that didn't belong in a mother’s desecrated bedroom.
Behind him, two massive men in dark jackets were holding a heavy, antique iron safe.
Vincent stepped into the doorway.
“Put it down.”
His voice was dangerously quiet.
Michael smiled, adjusting his cuffs.
“Vince. You’re up early from dinner. Claudia said you’d be occupied for at least another hour.”
Vincent didn't look at his brother. He looked at the men holding the safe.
“If you don't put my father's safe down in three seconds, you will leave this house in bags.”
The two men hesitated. They looked at Michael, then back at the most feared Mafia boss in New York.
They slowly lowered the heavy iron box onto the carpet.
“It’s my property now, Vince,” Michael said, crossing his arms. “Mom’s moving to a care facility. Claudia and I handled the paperwork. You’re too emotional about the old woman to make the hard choices.”
Vincent walked slowly into the room.
“You tore apart our mother’s room while she was eating dinner.”
“I was securing family assets.”
Margaret leaned against my shoulder in the doorway, quietly weeping as she looked at her ruined belongings.
“My photos,” she whispered. “Joseph’s letters.”
Vincent stopped in front of the safe.
He looked down.
“You’re a fool, Michael.”
“Excuse me?”
“Dad’s safe has a dual-lock system. You can’t open it without the combination and the brass key.”
Michael’s smug smile widened.
He reached into his pocket.
And pulled out a heavy, antique brass key.
Margaret gasped.
“He stole it,” she cried. “I kept it hidden inside my jewelry box!”
“Claudia found it,” Michael corrected smoothly. “She’s very thorough. We already opened it, Vince. We already took the new will.”
Vincent went completely still.
He knelt down and pulled the heavy iron door of the safe.
It swung open effortlessly.
Vincent reached inside, feeling the velvet-lined shelves.
His expression changed.
He stood up slowly, looking directly at his younger brother.
“Where are they?” Vincent demanded.
Michael laughed. “I just told you. We have the documents. The house, the upstate territory, the offshore accounts—Dad left it all to me in the revised will.”
“No,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “He didn't.”
Vincent reached into the safe again and pulled out a small, false-bottom drawer that only the head of the family knew about.
It was completely empty.
“The ledger is gone,” Vincent said.
Michael frowned. “What ledger? I only took the manila envelope with the will.”
Vincent stared at him, realization crashing over his features.
He suddenly grabbed Michael by the throat and slammed him against the floral wallpaper.
“You stupid, arrogant child!” Vincent roared, the calm completely shattering. “Claudia didn't just want the house! She used you to get into the safe, and she stole the Syndicate's master ledger!”
Michael choked, his face turning red. “She… she wouldn't…”
Suddenly, my cell phone vibrated in my apron pocket.
I pulled it out with shaking hands.
It was an unknown number.
I answered it.
“Hello?” I whispered.
May you like
Claudia’s voice echoed through the speaker, sharp and triumphant.
“Emily. Be a darling and pass the phone to Vincent. Tell him if he ever wants to see the ledger—or your sixty-eight-year-old mother—alive again, he’ll do exactly as I say.”
