Chapter 5 - THE GOLDEN ROSE
Vincent’s father had been in federal prison for fifteen years.
He wasn’t supposed to be out. He wasn't supposed to be running anything.
"Pack a bag for the boy," Vincent ordered, handing the drawing back to me. "We have three minutes."
I didn't ask questions.
I ran to my ruined apartment, grabbed Leo’s backpack, shoved in some clothes, his favorite stuffed bear, and his asthma inhaler.
When I returned, Vincent had Leo in his arms, carrying him easily.
"Where are we going?" I asked, following him down the dark stairs.
"To the only place my family doesn't know about."
We drove in silence for forty minutes.
Leo fell asleep in the backseat, his small hand gripping the sleeve of the oversized wool coat Vincent had given me.
We pulled up to a stone house on the edge of Lake Michigan. It was isolated, surrounded by high iron gates and dark trees.
Vincent unlocked the door. The house was cold and smelled like dust and cedar.
"Put him in the second bedroom upstairs," Vincent said. "Lock the door. Then come down."
I did as I was told. I tucked Leo under a heavy quilt. I kissed his forehead, promising him everything was okay, even though I had no idea if it was.
When I came downstairs, Vincent had started a fire in the living room hearth.
He was pouring two glasses of scotch.
He handed me one.
"Drink."
I took a sip. It burned, but it steadied my shaking hands.
"My father," Vincent began, staring into the flames, "went away when I was twenty-seven. He handed the family to me. But he never forgave me for letting him take the fall."
"Why would he want you dead now?" I asked.
"Because of the ledgers." Vincent looked at me. "The real books. Millions of dollars hidden in offshore accounts. My father hid them before he was locked up. He thought I found them. But I never did."
He paused.
"Dominic was looking for them too. That’s why Dominic is dead."
I stared at him. "Your father killed his own son?"
"And now he's trying to kill me."
Answer one: The golden rose meant Vincent’s father, Don Carlo, was pulling the strings from behind bars—or he was already out.
Open two: What did my father, a simple elevator mechanic, have to do with millions in hidden mob money?
"Wait," I said, putting my glass down. "My father’s van. When the police returned his belongings, there was a box in the attic. I never opened it."
Vincent turned to me sharply. "Where is it?"
"In my apartment. Under the floorboards in my bedroom."
Vincent cursed. "They tore your apartment apart. If they found it—"
"They didn't," I said. "They slashed the furniture. But they didn't know about the loose board under the radiator."
Vincent pulled out his phone. He dialed a number.
"I need a crew at..." He paused, looking at me.
"418 West Elm. Unit 4D," I said.
Vincent relayed the address. "Get whatever is under the floorboard by the radiator. Bring it here."
He hung up.
An hour later, there was a knock at the door.
Vincent opened it. A man in a dark jacket handed him a metal lockbox.
Vincent set it on the coffee table.
It was locked.
I went to my purse, pulled out a bobby pin, and jiggled the cheap padlock until it popped.
I opened the lid.
Inside was a stack of thick, leather-bound notebooks.
The ledgers.
Vincent let out a breath he had been holding for fifteen years.
"Your father," Vincent whispered. "He didn't just repair elevators. He was building hiding places."
But there was something else in the box.
Sitting on top of the ledgers was a train ticket.
It was stamped for tonight. 11:45 PM. Union Station.
I picked it up.
May you like
The name on the passenger list made the blood freeze in my veins.
It was booked for Grace Mercer.
