Chapter Nine

ANNA’S POV

I parked the sedan in the unmarked lot at the back of the old shipping terminal. The GPS was no longer updating 3 blocks ago, indicating that the signal jammer in the vicinity was working. I threw the switch, took my bag and went out into the cool air. The factory belt was silent save the low hum of the ventilation system and the passing of a freight truck on the access road every now and then.

I went to the steel service door and read the number plate. 412. Same as the key. I took the tarnished brass out of my pocket and slipped it into the deadbolt. It swung with a great clack. I opened the door and went into the stairwell.

The building wasn’t a bank. It was a personal storage wing in the form of a logistics warehouse. Don Basano used it for high-value assets. The old routing codes were the same as those of Don Alonzo. I was familiar with the layout since I had been auditing the off-book properties of Basano in the past two years. I moved up the stairs, counting the landings. Third floor. Concrete hallway. Fluorescent lights flickering. I walked silently and had my phone on mute.

The hall had a reinforced door at the end of the hall adjacent to a digital keypad. I entered the sequence as in the text message. The traffic light changed to green. The lock disengaged.

I stepped inside.

The room was small. The walls were lined with metal shelving. One security camera was blinking red in the corner. I ignored it. I strolled to the center locker, threw in the key and turned. The iron door was opened.

There was one manila envelope inside. Thick. Stamped with a wax seal which had broken years earlier. I took it out, unscrewed the seal and spilled the contents on the folding table.

Bank transfer records. Partnership agreements. Handwritten ledgers. I turned them over quickly. These dates were in line with the year my father and Don Enzo began the heavy machinery business. I scanned the signatures. Don Alex Basano. Don Enzo Alonzo. Both on the same authorization sheet. I followed the routing numbers. The money wasn’t stolen. It was moved. Divided into three offshore accounts. Two were to shell companies under the name of the Angelo family. The third one was sent to a holding trust named M.A. Trust.

I hesitated a moment in breath. M.A. Michael’s mother.

I turned the page. Under the main ledger was a secondary authorization form. Same date. Same transfer. The signature of my father was there. There was the signature of Don Enzo. And at the bottom, a witness signature, which was similar to the one on my mother accident report. Elena Alonzo.

The room air seemed to become suddenly thin. I supported myself on the table and rubbed my thumb over the ink. It was not the stolen money that the feud was about. It was a cover. Both families transacted the cash using the same channels to conceal a bigger payoff. And the order that financed it was named after my father.

The back door opened with a bang.

I turned. Michael was in the doorway. His suit jacket was gone. His arms were turned up to his elbows. His gaze was to the table.

I said, You followed me.

“I don’t leave loose ends.” He entered and shut the door. What was it you discovered?

“Nothing you can use.” I began to pick up the papers.

He moved fast. He walked across the room, grabbed my wrist and prevented me to pile the files. His hold was strong yet painless. He didn’t let go.

Anna. Show me.

You can not order things around me. I withdrew my arm. He gripped me a second, and set me free.

He took the first page up. He looked up and down the lines. I could see his jaw tighten as he read the amounts of the transfers. He turned to the adjoining sheet. Next the permission form. His thumb was floating above the signature of Elena.

This does not agree with what I was told, said he to himself.

You were told a lie that made you angry. Make you move. I tapped the ledger. Your father did not become bankrupt, he transferred his capital. My father paid the routing. They divided the payout. Your mother signed it.

He looked up. His eyes were blue, and cold, but the anger was covered with something more. “You’re lying.”

“I’m reading.” I gave him the witness statement. Check the handwriting. Check the dates. Your entire scheme of vengeance is on a ledger which was buried when you were too young to keep your own books.

He didn’t answer. He simply gazed at the paper. His breathing remained steady. His posture didn’t change. But I perceived the change. The confidence with which he walked broke, momentarily.

The wall security panel then beeped. Once. Twice. There was a red flashing light. The electronic lock at the door clicked.

I stepped back. Did you circumvent the system?

“I didn’t touch it.” He proceeded to the control panel. The screen read LOCKDOWN INITIATED. REMOTE OVERRIDE ACTIVE.

The building was under the control of another person.

The intercom crackled. There was a hissing of the speaker. Then came a voice, cool and familiar.

Close box, Anna, you are reading the wrong page.

I froze. I knew that voice. I had heard it in the office of my mother. At Basano Holdings. During all boardroom meetings in which my father would be at the center of the table.

Don Alex Basano.

His phone was in the hand of Michael. No signal. He looked in the window. Reinforced glass. There was no one in the street below.

We were locked in. And my father was fully aware of what we had just opened.