Chapter 5 - THE DRAWING IN THE POCKET
I stepped into the cold, dusty vault, my flashlight beam trembling on the heavy wool coat.
I remembered that coat. I used to bury my face in it when my father came home from work in the winter. It smelled like peppermint and cold wind.
He hadn't worn it in over twenty years.
Maria walked past me, her eyes fixated on the leather-bound ledger on the desk. She ran a frail hand over the cover, wiping away a thick layer of dust.
"He kept it all," she whispered.
I reached out and pulled the piece of paper from the pocket of my father's coat.
It was a child's drawing, done in bright crayons.
It was a drawing of a house with a blue roof, a big tree, and three stick figures holding hands. A tall man, a woman, and a little girl.
At the top, in clumsy childhood handwriting, it read: For Daddy. I love you, Lily.
Tears pricked my eyes. I had drawn this for him when I was five.
But there was something else.
On the back of the drawing, written in my father's precise accountant handwriting, was a message.
Antonio—If they ever come for me, use the money in the offshore account to make sure Lily and her mother are safe. The ledger proves you had nothing to do with it. Thank you, my friend. - Bill.
"He didn't steal the money," I gasped, looking at Maria.
Maria looked up from the open ledger. "What?"
"My dad. He didn't steal the money for himself. He was hiding it to protect us."
Maria turned the pages of the massive book. Her face grew pale in the glow of the flashlight.
"Lily," she said softly. "Look at this."
I walked over to the desk.
The ledger was filled with names, dates, and massive sums of money. But the names weren't mob bosses.
They were politicians. Judges. City officials.
"They were extorting the neighborhood businesses," Maria realized, her voice thick with disgust. "The city inspectors, the police captains. They bled the immigrant families dry."
"And your husband kept a record of every bribe," I said, tracing the ink.
"No," Maria pointed to the handwriting. "This isn't Antonio's writing."
"It's my father's," I realized.
"Your father didn't just keep the books," Maria said, looking at me with profound respect. "He gathered the evidence to take down the corruption in this city. He siphoned their bribe money into an offshore account so they couldn't use it. He was a hero."
Suddenly, the heavy wooden stairs behind us groaned.
Footsteps. Heavy and fast.
"Marco?" I called out into the dark.
A flashlight beam hit my face, blinding me.
"Not quite."
The voice belonged to Richard Hale.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, flanked by three large men in dark suits.
My blood ran cold.
"How did you find us?" I demanded, shielding my eyes.
Richard smirked, stepping into the vault.
"Dominic is a weak man, Lily. When Marco kicked him out, he came crying to me. He told me about the Easter Bread recipe."
Richard's eyes fell on the ledger. His smile widened into something predatory.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "The leverage to control half the politicians in New York State."
He gestured to one of his men. "Grab the book."
The man stepped forward, roughly shoving Maria aside. She stumbled against the brick wall.
"Don't touch her!" I yelled, stepping between them.
Richard laughed. "You're a brave girl, Lily. Just like your father."
I froze. "What do you know about my father?"
Richard adjusted his cuffs.
"I know that he's currently sitting in the back of my van upstairs. Marco was a little too slow getting to the nursing home."
My heart stopped.
"Where is Marco?" Maria demanded, her voice shaking with terror.
"Sleeping off a heavy blow to the back of the head," Richard said casually. "He put up a good fight in the parking lot. But numbers always win."
He picked up the ledger, admiring the weight of it.
"The deed transfers to me in one hour," Richard said, checking his watch. "Now I have the ledger. All that's missing is the password to the offshore account."
He looked at me.
"And since your father's memory is... unreliable these days, I'm hoping his daughter might be able to jog it for him."
He nodded to his men.
Before I could react, two pairs of massive hands grabbed my arms, dragging me toward the stairs.
Maria screamed, lunging forward, but Richard caught her by the shoulder, shoving her hard onto the dusty floor.
"Leave her!" I screamed, kicking wildly.
"Bring the girl," Richard ordered. "Leave the old woman in the vault. We'll pour concrete over this door tomorrow."
They dragged me up the stairs, my kicks useless against their strength.
They hauled me out the back door of the restaurant into the freezing alleyway.
A black van idled by the dumpsters.
The doors slid open.
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Tied up in the back, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, was Marco.
And sitting next to him, looking terrified and frail in his pajamas, was my father.
