Chapter 11 - THE PRICE OF FREEDOM
The words hung in the cold morning air, heavier than the rain clouds gathering outside.
"Fifty million dollars?" Dominic repeated, his gun still loosely pointed at the ground.
"The money your mother stole twenty-eight years ago, Claire," Paul said, stepping into the foyer. "DeLuca didn't just lose a daughter; he lost his syndicate's war chest. He's been hunting for it ever since."
"I don't have fifty million dollars," I cried, my voice echoing in the grand hall. "I buy my shoes on clearance! I work double shifts to pay my rent!"
Paul set the worn leather briefcase on the marble floor and popped the latches.
Inside wasn't money. It was stacks of ancient, yellowed bearer bonds.
"Your mother didn't steal cash, Claire," Paul explained softly. "She stole bonds. Untraceable. But they can only be cashed with a specific cipher key. A sequence of numbers she hid before she died."
Paul looked at me with desperate eyes. "The Sicilians are coming, Claire. DeLuca promised them the money in exchange for breaking him out of federal custody. They will tear this city apart to find the cipher."
Answer one: My mother's poverty was a shield. She never spent a dime of the stolen money because cashing it would have alerted DeLuca to our location.
Open two: Where did my mother hide a cipher key twenty-eight years ago?
"I don't know any cipher," I pleaded, racking my brain. "She didn't leave me anything. Just a box of old photos and her wedding ring."
Dominic stepped forward, his mind working with the speed of a master tactician.
"Think, Claire," Dominic urged gently. "She knew DeLuca would eventually find you. She wouldn't leave you defenseless. Did she give you anything specific before she died? A phrase? An object?"
I closed my eyes, picturing my mother's frail form in the hospice bed five years ago.
“Remember, Claire,” she had whispered, holding my hand. “The things that hold us together are the things we never take off.”
My eyes flew open.
"The rosary," I gasped.
Dominic frowned. "What rosary?"
"My mother had a cheap wooden rosary," I said, my heart racing. "She made me swear never to take it off. I wear it under my uniform every single day."
I reached into the collar of my maid's dress and pulled out the simple, worn wooden cross attached to a string of cheap beads.
Dominic leaned in. He examined the wooden cross.
"It's hollow," Dominic realized.
He took a small pocket knife from his belt and gently pried the back of the wooden cross open.
A tiny, tightly rolled piece of microfiche fell into his palm.
"The cipher," Paul breathed, staring at the tiny roll of film.
Suddenly, the screech of tires echoed from the long driveway outside.
Dominic ran to the window.
Three black, armored SUVs were tearing up the gravel drive, smashing through the ornamental iron gates. Heavily armed men in tactical gear were pouring out before the vehicles even came to a complete stop.
"The Sicilians," Paul said, drawing a snub-nosed revolver from his coat. "They tracked me."
Dominic spun around, his voice cracking like a whip. "Elena! Take Leo and get into the basement safe room. Lock the steel door and do not open it until you hear my voice."
Elena didn't argue. She grabbed the journal and ran up the stairs to get her son.
Dominic looked at me, grabbing my shoulders. "You need to go with them, Claire."
"No," I said, my voice hardening. "They're here for me. If I hide, they'll burn this house down with everyone inside."
I grabbed the tiny roll of microfiche from his hand.
"I'm ending this," I said.
Before Dominic could stop me, I turned and walked out the front door, stepping onto the grand porch just as the armed men surrounded the entrance.
The leader of the hit squad, a tall man with a scarred neck, raised an assault rifle, pointing it directly at my chest.
"Give us the cipher, little bird," the man sneered in a thick accent. "And maybe we let you live."
"You want it?" I yelled over the rain.
I held the tiny roll of microfiche up between two fingers.
Then, I pulled a silver lighter from my apron pocket—a lighter left behind by a guest last night.
I sparked the flame and held it directly beneath the delicate film.
"No!" the leader screamed, lunging forward.
May you like
The microfiche caught fire instantly, burning into a useless curl of black ash in less than a second.
Fifty million dollars, gone in a puff of smoke.
