Chapter 3 - THE TRAIN TICKET IN THE FOLD
My heart slammed against my ribs.
The entire room was staring at me.
“My father’s name is Thomas Reed,” I said, my voice shaking. “He was an accountant. He had a stroke last year. You know this, Mr. Moretti. It’s in my employment file.”
Luca slowly shook his head, holding up the faded document.
“This is a deed of transfer,” Luca said. “Dated thirty-one years ago. Transferring full ownership of the Moretti shipping enterprise into a blind trust.”
Julian sneered. “Like I said. Your father was weak. He was going to sell us out and go legitimate.”
“No,” Luca said, his eyes reading further down the page. “He wasn't selling us out. He was trying to get us out. And he left the trust under the control of a single proxy.”
Luca turned the paper so I could see it.
At the bottom, signed in blue ink, was a name I had seen on my own birth certificate.
Tomaso Ricci.
“That’s… that’s my father’s signature,” I whispered, stumbling back a step. “But his name is Reed. He’s never been involved in anything like this.”
“Ricci,” Arthur Bell said softly from the corner. “Tomaso Ricci was Michael Moretti’s personal driver. And his most trusted confidant.”
My mind went completely blank.
My father wasn’t an accountant. My entire life had been built on a fabricated identity.
“He wasn’t just a driver,” Julian spat, pulling a silver handgun from inside his tailored suit.
Screams erupted around the table. Guests scrambled backward.
Julian pointed the weapon directly at Luca.
“Tomaso was a rat,” Julian said, his voice echoing in the chaos. “He convinced your father to walk away. He convinced him to draft that paperwork. If I hadn’t cut the brakes on Michael’s car that night, we would all be working in grocery stores right now.”
Vanessa screamed. “You killed Michael? You told my father you had nothing to do with it!”
“I did what had to be done,” Julian said coldly. “Now, hand over the envelope, Luca. The deed is worthless without the account codes, but I’m not leaving loose ends.”
Luca didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t even flinch.
“You cut the brakes,” Luca repeated, the realization settling heavily into his bones. “For thirty years, I mourned him. I trusted you to help me find who did it. And it was you.”
“Hand it over,” Julian demanded, cocking the hammer of the gun.
Suddenly, Arthur Bell cleared his throat.
The eighty-two-year-old clockmaker hadn’t moved an inch. He was still standing by his wooden tool case.
“You’re missing something, Julian,” Arthur said mildly.
Julian glared at him. “Shut up, old man.”
“When Michael gave me the envelope to hide,” Arthur continued, entirely unfazed by the weapon, “he told me to slip something else inside it. Just in case.”
Luca looked down at the envelope in his hand.
He reached his fingers deep into the bottom corner of the heavy paper.
He pulled out a small, rectangular piece of faded yellow cardstock.
It was an old train ticket.
Punched for a departure to Montreal. Dated the exact night Michael Moretti’s car went off the bridge.
But it wasn’t Michael’s name on the ticket.
Julian’s eyes widened in sheer panic when he saw it.
“Where did you get that?” Julian demanded, his gun trembling.
Luca turned the ticket over.
May you like
Written in his father’s handwriting were four words:
He takes the fall.
