Chapter 3 - The Daughter of a Dead ManFor nine years, Elena Martinez had believed her father died because a drunk driver lost control on a rainy highway.
Now a wounded mafia boss was telling her that her father had been involved in the most dangerous criminal organization in Chicago.
She wanted to laugh.
She wanted to slap Marco.
More than anything, she wanted to go back ten minutes, before she had read the message that had turned her entire childhood into a question mark.
“My father was a mechanic,” she said.
Marco remained silent.
“He worked six days a week. He came home smelling like motor oil. He complained about the price of groceries and watched baseball on Sunday afternoons. He taught me how to change a tire when I was fourteen.”
“I believe you.”
“No, you don't.” Her voice cracked. “You're looking at me like you recognize him.”
Marco looked down at the phone in his hand.
“I knew your father.”
The words landed between them with terrible finality.
Elena gripped the edge of the counter.
“How?”
“Gabriel Martinez worked for my father. He managed financial records for several legitimate businesses, but he also knew about money that was never supposed to appear in any official account.”
“My father never stole anything.”
“I didn't say he did.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Marco drew a slow breath, wincing when his ribs protested.
“Your father discovered that my uncle, Vincent Bellini, was moving money through companies that didn't belong to him. At first, Gabriel thought it was ordinary embezzlement. Then he discovered that the money was connected to missing shipments, corrupt officials, and payments made to people who were supposed to be protecting the city.”
Elena shook her head.
“Why would he get involved in something like that?”
“Because he believed my father would stop it.”
“And did he?”
“No.”
Marco's answer was quiet.
“My father was a powerful man, but he was also a coward when it came to his own family. Vincent was his younger brother. He kept believing that one more warning, one more private conversation, one more chance would be enough.”
“Until my father disappeared.”
Marco didn't answer immediately.
“Until Gabriel disappeared.”
Elena looked at him with disbelief.
“You think someone killed him?”
“I think your father's death was never properly investigated.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No. It isn't.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Marco reached into his jacket and withdrew a small object wrapped in a piece of cloth.
A brass key.
It was old, with a number stamped into the metal.
417.
“I found this in my father's study after he died,” he explained. “I was told it belonged to a storage facility that had closed years ago. I kept it because my father had written your father's name on the envelope.”
Elena stared at the key.
“Why didn't you look for him?”
“I did.”
“And?”
Marco's jaw tightened.
“I was twenty-four. I believed the people around me when they told me Gabriel had taken money and fled the country. I had no reason to believe otherwise.”
“You were old enough to know better.”
“Yes.”
He didn't defend himself.
Somehow, that made Elena angrier.
She had spent years imagining her father in his final moments, wondering whether he had been afraid, whether he had suffered, whether he had called her name.
And this man had known him.
This man had possessed a key that might have led to answers.
Yet he had done nothing.
“You need to leave,” she said.
“Elena—”
“Now.”
Marco stood slowly.
He looked as if he wanted to explain himself, but he seemed to understand that any explanation would sound like an excuse.
He placed the key on the counter.
“I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm asking you to be careful. Whoever sent those messages knows your name and where you work.”
“Then I'll call the police.”
“You can.”
“You sound as if you don't think that will help.”
“I think you should speak to a lawyer before you speak to anyone who might be connected to my family.”
She hated how reasonable he sounded.
She hated even more that she was beginning to believe him.
Marco pulled on his coat.
He had barely reached the back door when Elena spoke.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“If my father really worked for your family, then you know things about him that I don't.”
“Yes.”
“And if someone killed him because of what he knew, they'll come after me.”
“I believe they already have.”
Elena closed her eyes.
She was tired of being frightened. Tired of being the woman who survived everything without ever understanding why it had happened.
“What would you do?” she asked.
Marco turned around.
“Find out what your father left behind.”
“And how?”
His gaze moved to the brass key.
“Together.”
She almost laughed.
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I expect you to watch me carefully, question everything I tell you, and walk away the moment you believe I'm putting you in danger.”
“And if you lie?”
“Then you'll have every right to hate me.”
Elena studied him.
She saw a man who had learned to live with violence and had mistaken control for strength. She saw someone who could order other people to die without raising his voice.
But she also saw a man who had admitted his mistakes without demanding forgiveness.
It was not enough.
Not nearly enough.
Yet it was something.
“I'm not doing this because I trust you,” she said.
Marco nodded.
“I understand.”
“I'm doing it because I deserve to know what happened to my father.”
“Then we agree.”
Elena picked up the key.
“Where do we start?”
Marco looked toward the darkened windows.
“Storage facility 417.”
May you like
He paused.
“And we need to get there before my brother does.”
Related Stories
