Chapter 3 - The Ledger of the Dead
I stared at the envelope, my mind racing. Fifteen thousand dollars was more than I earned in a year at Maggie’s Diner. It meant rent paid, real pain medication, and maybe—just maybe—a chance to register for night classes again.
“I don't clean dirty money,” I said firmly, holding his gaze.
Matteo let out a short, dry laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement. “If I wanted money laundered, I have three firms on LaSalle Street with Harvard degrees and zero consciences. I don't need you to launder anything.”
“Then what do you want?”
Matteo stood up, his tall frame blocking out the light from the fireplace. He walked over to a steel safe embedded in the wall behind a framed oil painting, spun the dial with practiced ease, and extracted a worn, leather-bound notebook with gold edges.
He brought it over to the desk and laid it flat.
“This belonged to my brother, Julian,” Matteo said quietly. The coldness in his face flickered for a fraction of a second, revealing a deep, dark vein of grief underneath. “Three years ago, Julian was killed when his car exploded outside his house in River North. The police called it a turf war with the North Side gangs. My family accepted that answer.”
He opened the book to a page dense with numbers, dates, and coded shorthand.
“Julian was meticulous,” Matteo continued. “He ran the financial side of our operations. Before he died, he told me he had discovered a quiet leak in our supply lines—someone inside our inner circle stealing small amounts over five years. Millions of dollars, disguised as routine operational losses, customs bribes, and shipping delays.”
“Why didn't he tell you who it was?” I asked, taking a step closer to the desk, my curiosity momentarily overriding my caution.
“He died two days after he found the final proof,” Matteo said, his jaw tightening. “The bomb destroyed his office, his car, and his records. This ledger was in a safety deposit box he kept under an assumed name. I retrieved it last month.”
He gestured to the open page.
“My current accountants looked at it. They said it was just Julian’s personal expenses and old business logs. But I know my brother. Julian didn't keep personal diaries. He coded everything using a system he learned in university.”
I looked down at the pages. The handwriting was neat, slanted, and precise. Columns of figures were paired with odd Greek letters and dates that didn't align with standard fiscal quarters.
“You think the person stealing from your family killed your brother,” I realized aloud.
“I know they did,” Matteo said softly, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And I know that traitor is still sitting at my dinner table every Sunday, eating my food, drinking my wine, and waiting for me to make a mistake.”
He tapped the leather cover of the notebook.
“I need someone outside the family to break this code. Someone who isn't loyal to my lieutenants, someone who doesn't answer to the police, and someone with enough attention to detail to risk her life for a friend at a diner.”
“I’m just a former student, Matteo,” I argued, though my eyes were already scanning the first column of figures. “I haven't looked at complex ledgers in five years.”
“You recognized a death sentence tonight and stood in front of it anyway,” Matteo replied, stepping closer until he was standing right beside me. “That shows brains and heart. A rare combination in Chicago.”
He pushed the Manila envelope closer to me.
“Take the money. Work on the ledger here, in this apartment, three nights a week after your shift at the diner. If you find the name, I will give you another fifty thousand dollars and guarantee your safety for the rest of your life.”
I looked at the thick envelope, then at the leather notebook containing a dead man’s final secret. My bad leg throbbed, reminding me of my poverty, my limitations, and the cruel world that had reduced me to begging at a mobster's feet.
“Fifty thousand,” I said, my voice steadying. “And you forgive Pete’s remaining debt.”
Matteo stared at me, a faint, dark smile creeping onto his lips. “Negotiating with a monster, Clara?”
May you like
“I’ve met monsters before,” I said coldly. “At least you pay cash.”
Matteo extended his hand once more. This time, I shook it without trembling.
