Chapter Eleven

THE weight of the LEDger.

ANNA’S POV

Matt switched off the engine in the alley behind a walk-up of bricks. The sound of rain was beating the SUV roof and the sirens were drowned out. I had my hands flat on the folder in my lap. Brass key pierced my thigh with my blazer pocket. I was breathing evenly. I timed the seconds between Matt glancing in his mirrors and Michael surveying the street.

We are all clear, said Matt, in a low voice. "Cameras loop in forty seconds. You have to move.

Michael opened his door first. The cabin was struck by cold air. He didn't wait for me. He got out, looked around the alley, and held the back door open. I slipped down, with feet on wet sidewalks. I drew the blazer close and walked with him towards the back door.

The door was opened, and Sofia was there. She had dark sweatpants and a loose knit sweater, with short hair behind her ears. She didn't smile. She simply moved aside and allowed us to enter.

You are like you ran through a fence, you know, she said, and shut the deadbolt behind us.

Chain link, I said. "It wasn't reinforced."

"Good. Sit." She indicated the stools in the kitchen. I threw the folder down on the counter. My hands at last loosened. I shook my shoulders and looked at my phone. Screen broken, battery twelve percent. I turned it off. I did not require a second tracking ping.

Michael leanted against the window frame, and looked at the alley through the blinds. He had not looked off the street since we went in. His arms were bare with wet clothes stuck to his forearms. He gazed nonchalantly, but I recognized that gaze. He was charting out exits, counting angles, awaiting the next step.

Sofia took a medical kit that was under the sink and placed it on the counter. She didn't ask questions. She has only opened it, removed antiseptic wipes and nodded on my knuckles, which I scraped.

"I'm fine," I said.

You are bleeding on my counter, give me your hand.

I held it out. She washed the cuts up, fast and noiseless. I continued staring at the folder. I flipped it and laid the pages out on the laminate. The ink was wet with the rain. The routing numbers, the transfer dates, the authorization sheets. I put them in line.

Something was amiss.

I dragged the annex page along. It was thinner than the rest, and was a half-fold. I smoothed it out. Written three weeks prior to the assassination of Don Enzo Alonzo. I searched through the bottom signatures. Don Alex Basano. Elena Alonzo. And a third. Raph Angelo.

Adrian's father.

My heartbeat remained the same, but my mind changed gears. The money wasn't just moved between Basano and Alonzo. Angelo was laundering it in his offshore accounts. It was no betrayal of the feud. It was a cover. Don Enzo discovered that the three families had a joint laundering ring, and he was withdrawing. That's why he died. Not the greed of my father. Angelo's cleanup.

"Michael," I said. My voice was flat. "Look at this."

He threw back the frame of the window and walked across the room. He pulled up next to me, his eyes falling on the paper. I saw his jaw set in a knot as he read the routing lines. His thumb was floating above the Angelo signature. He didn't touch it. He has just read it over.

Three weeks before I die, he said to himself.

Angelo was laundering the money through his shell companies. My dad was doing the domestic routes. Your dad discovered the discrepancy and threatened to blow the whistle. Angelo did not just need the cash. He needed the logistics network your dad had. And my dad was signing the cover-up to keep the logistics network intact.

Michael kept his blue eyes on the page. The anger I expected didn't flare. It just went cold. Calculating. He pulled a chair out and sat down. He didn't look at me. He looked at the dates.

Why did my mother sign the authorization, he said, when Angelo ordered the hit?

Because she was already laundering money on his behalf. I struck the second sheet. Check the witness line. It was not a signature as a beneficiary, but a signature as a routing coordinator. She knew the split was on. She knew your father was going to blow the whistle. And she signed it.

He leaned back. Scrap, scrap, scrap. He tossed his wet hair and sighed. She said Basano brought him down. She said I was after the right ghost.

You have been feeding me the one that makes you useful, I said. You are not after my father, you are after the man who bought the trigger. And you have been shooting at the wrong family five years.

The telephone on the counter buzzed. Screen lit up. Unknown number.

Michael took it up. He didn't hesitate. He responded on speaker.

You're reading the annex as though it were a verdict, Elena said. Calm. Measured. The Angelo signature is a drop. The actual order was out of the desk of your father. he was bleeding the accounts dry. I signed to prevent the collapse. you are digging your own grave, Michael.

The voice of Michael remained low. You lie again. The dates do not fit your story. Angelo was taking the cash back. My father found it. That's why he was killed.

Your father made the trap. I just got out of it. Check the vault codes. The ones you memorized when you were twelve. They match the offshore routing. He did not find the leak. He made it. And he had Angelo clean it up. The line snapped off.

Michael dropped the phone. He placed it upside down on the counter. He didn't look at me. He didn't look at Sofia. He merely gazed at the ledger.

Sofia moved back towards the hallway. I am going to fetch coffee. You two have five minutes.

She walked out. The kitchen was smaller. The sound of the rain on the window was louder. My hands were laid flat on the counter. I didn't reach for him. I didn't soften my voice. I simply sat the truth between us.

Who pulled the trigger, I said, when your father ordered it?

Michael at last raised his eyes. His eyes were keen. The doubt was gone. Substituted with a heavier one. Direction.

"I don't know," he said. But I will, I will find out.

The lights cut out.

Total darkness. The buzz of the refrigerator ceased. The street light beyond the blinds disappeared. I didn't move. I listened. Footsteps up the stair. Heavy. Rhythmic. Not running. Not rushing. Tactical spacing.

The chair that Michael sat on scraped. He came in my way. In the darkness his hand touched mine. His hands were numb, yet he held on. He didn't squeeze. He just held it. A signal. Stay behind me.

In the hallway the voice of Sofia was a whisper. "Anna. Get down."

The deadbolt turned. Slow. Deliberate. The door didn't swing. It clicked.

A red laser beam was flashing over the kitchen cabinets. Then another. It stopped on my chest. I didn't flinch. I was about to take a step, having pushed myself.

The other hand of Michael was at his waist. I heard a gentle cluck of a safety being thrown.

The door burst open.