Chapter 7
The Brooklyn address led to a laundromat.
Roman stared through the SUV window.
“This has to be wrong.”
Morgana looked at the faded blue awning.
“Because criminals don’t wash clothes?”
“Because my mother hated laundromats.”
“You remember that?”
“She complained about them constantly.”
Roman almost smiled.
“She said the machines ate socks because they were portals to hell.”
Morgana looked at him.
“That sounds surprisingly normal.”
“She was surprisingly normal.”
Pain moved behind the words.
Morgana did not touch it.
Not yet.
The laundromat had been operating since 1978.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed above rows of old machines.
A Korean woman in her seventies sat behind the counter watching a television.
Roman approached.
“Mrs. Park?”
The woman looked up.
“Yes?”
“My name is Roman Costa.”
Everything changed.
Mrs. Park turned off the television.
She looked at his face for a long time.
“Elena’s boy.”
Roman stopped.
“You knew my mother?”
Mrs. Park stood.
“I knew Elena.”
She looked toward Morgana.
Then Hayes.
“Who are they?”
“My people.”
Roman said it naturally.
Morgana noticed.
Not employees.
Not guards.
His people.
Mrs. Park locked the front door.
She turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
Then walked toward the rear.
“Come.”
Behind the laundromat was a narrow office.
Mrs. Park moved a filing cabinet.
A small wall safe appeared.
Roman stared.
“How long has that been there?”
“Longer than you’ve been dangerous.”
Hayes coughed to hide a laugh.
Roman ignored him.
Mrs. Park opened the safe.
Inside was a metal box.
She handed it to Roman.
“Your mother gave me this two days before she died.”
Roman did not take it immediately.
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“She told me not to.”
Mrs. Park’s voice was gentle.
“She said if Salvatore ever asked, I knew nothing.”
Roman finally accepted the box.
“She said Daniel would come.”
“Did he?”
“Every year.”
Roman’s eyes sharpened.
“When?”
“November.”
Mrs. Park smiled sadly.
“Always November.”
“Why?”
“The anniversary.”
Roman looked down.
His mother had died in November.
“What did he do?”
“Checked the box.”
“Opened it?”
“No.”
Mrs. Park shook her head.
“He asked if anyone had come.”
“And this year?”
“He came six months ago.”
“That’s not November.”
“No.”
Mrs. Park looked worried.
“He was afraid.”
Roman opened the box.
Inside were several envelopes.
Bank documents.
A cassette tape.
And a small brass key.
Morgana picked up the cassette.
“No player?”
Mrs. Park pointed toward a cabinet.
“Your generation thinks everything began with the internet.”
Ten minutes later, they sat around an old cassette recorder.
Roman held the tape.
His thumb rested over the label.
For Roman.
His mother’s handwriting.
Morgana sat beside him.
“You don’t have to listen now.”
“Yes.”
Roman inserted the cassette.
Pressed play.
Static.
Then a woman’s voice.
Roman stopped breathing.
“If you are hearing this, sweetheart, something has gone wrong.”
Morgana looked at him.
Roman stared at the machine.
The voice continued.
“I hope Daniel never has to give you this. I hope I destroy it myself someday and laugh about how frightened I was.”
A pause.
“But your father is becoming someone I no longer recognize.”
Roman closed his eyes.
“He believes power can solve every problem. I believe power creates problems that eventually demand payment.”
The tape hissed.
“I helped build what he has. That is my sin, not yours.”
Roman’s eyes opened.
“I need you to understand that.”
Elena’s voice trembled.
“You are not responsible for what your parents became.”
Morgana felt the sentence strike Roman.
Hard.
“I have made arrangements.”
The recording continued.
“There is money your father does not know about. Enough for you to leave.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“If I cannot give you the key myself, Daniel will know where to find it.”
Roman looked at the brass key.
“And Roman…”
Elena’s voice softened.
“You are seventeen right now, and you think being hard is the same thing as being strong.”
A tiny laugh.
“I know because you learned that from your father.”
Roman lowered his head.
“But someday you will meet someone who makes you want to put the armor down.”
Morgana stopped breathing.
“When that happens, don’t punish them for finding the man underneath.”
Silence followed.
Then one final sentence.
“I love you more than anything I ever built.”
The tape clicked.
Roman did not move.
Hayes looked away.
Mrs. Park quietly left the room.
Morgana waited.
Roman’s hand closed around the brass key.
“My father told me she died instantly.”
His voice was rough.
“He told me she never said anything.”
Morgana understood.
“He wanted to be the last voice.”
Roman looked at her.
Something inside him cracked.
Not dramatically.
No tears.
No shouting.
Roman simply leaned forward and rested his forehead against Morgana’s shoulder.
She put her arms around him.
Hayes left.
For several minutes, Roman Costa allowed another person to hold him.
When he finally straightened, his face had changed.
Not healed.
But rearranged.
“We find what the key opens.”
They examined the documents.
One referenced a private deposit facility in Manhattan.
Not a bank.
A company specializing in anonymous storage.
The box number was 317.
By afternoon, Roman had arranged access.
The brass key opened a steel drawer.
Inside was a leather ledger.
Morgana saw Roman’s expression.
“What?”
“I know this.”
He opened it.
Pages of names.
Dates.
Payments.
Companies.
Politicians.
Police officers.
Union officials.
Judges.
Morgana felt cold.
“This is what your mother planned to give prosecutors?”
“Part of it.”
Roman turned pages.
Then stopped.
A name had been circled.
Thomas Vescari.
Hayes swore.
Morgana looked between them.
“Who?”
Roman closed the ledger.
“My father’s oldest friend.”
“Still alive?”
“Yes.”
Hayes looked grim.
“And very powerful.”
“How powerful?”
Roman met Morgana’s eyes.
“He controls three families on the East Coast.”
Morgana understood.
“More powerful than you?”
Roman did not answer immediately.
“Yes.”
The admission was quiet.
Morgana looked at the ledger.
“Why did your mother circle his name?”
Roman reopened the page.
Several payments appeared beneath Vescari’s name.
The final payment was dated one day before Elena died.
Amount:
$250,000.
Purpose:
CLEANUP.
Hayes stared.
“That could mean anything.”
“No.”
Roman’s voice changed.
“It means exactly what it looks like.”
Morgana looked at him.
“You think Vescari arranged the crash.”
“I think my father paid him.”
Hayes shook his head.
“Roman, Thomas practically raised you after Salvatore died.”
“I know.”
“He backed your succession.”
“I know.”
“He kept three crews from splitting the organization.”
“I know.”
Roman slammed the ledger closed.
The sound echoed through the private vault room.
“That’s the problem.”
He looked at Morgana.
“Everything good Thomas Vescari ever did for me might have been payment for helping murder my mother.”
Morgana thought about Jason.
About guilt disguised as care.
About people who offered shelter because they feared what would happen if the truth reached daylight.
“What do we do?” Hayes asked.
Roman stared at the ledger.
“We do nothing.”
Hayes frowned.
“Nothing?”
“Not yet.”
Roman put the ledger inside his coat.
“If Vescari knows this survived, we’re dead before we reach the bridge.”
Morgana watched him.
The wounded son disappeared.
The strategist returned.
“We go home.”
Roman continued.
“We tell nobody.”
“And Mercer?”
Hayes asked.
“We find out who killed him.”
Roman looked toward the steel drawer.
“Because whoever killed Daniel knew exactly what he had protected.”
They left Manhattan at dusk.
Traffic crawled north.
Morgana sat beside Roman.
His hand rested between them.
Palm upward.
Not demanding.
She placed her hand in his.
Roman’s fingers closed.
Neither spoke.
Twenty minutes later, Hayes’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His face changed.
“Boss.”
Roman looked up.
“What?”
“The estate.”
Hayes accelerated.
“What happened?”
“Gate lost contact three minutes ago.”
Roman immediately drew his weapon.
“Call backup.”
“I am.”
Hayes changed lanes violently.
Morgana’s heart accelerated.
Roman turned toward her.
“Stay low.”
This time she did not argue.
Because she saw fear in his eyes.
Not for himself.
For what might be waiting at home.
They reached the estate thirty-four minutes later.
The gate stood open.
One guard lay unconscious beside the security booth.
Roman was out of the vehicle before it fully stopped.
“Roman!”
Morgana followed.
Hayes swore and came after them.
The front door was open.
Nothing appeared stolen.
Nothing broken.
Roman entered with his weapon raised.
The foyer was empty.
Then Morgana saw something on the floor.
A white envelope.
Roman’s name.
Again.
Roman picked it up.
Inside was a photograph.
Morgana recognized it immediately.
It had been taken that afternoon.
Outside the Manhattan storage facility.
Roman.
Hayes.
And Morgana.
On the back, one sentence had been written.
Your mother should have left the dead buried.
Roman stared at it.
Then his eyes moved toward Morgana.
The meaning was obvious.
Someone knew.
Someone had followed them.
May you like
And whoever had entered Roman Costa’s fortress had wanted him to understand one thing.
The war he thought had ended in April had never been the real war.
