Chapter 4 - Greek Letters and Gasoline
Working in Matteo Moretti’s penthouse was like stepping into another dimension.
Three nights a week, after finishing my shift at Maggie’s, the dark sedan picked me up at the corner of 18th and Halsted. I would sit at the long glass table in Matteo’s private library, surrounded by old maps of Chicago, leather books, and the constant hum of the city eighty stories below.
Matteo was usually there, working quietly at his own desk, speaking in low, harsh Italian into an encrypted satellite phone, or reviewing shipping manifests from the Port of Chicago. He never bothered me. He had Martha, an elderly housekeeper who treated me with quiet sympathy, bring me tea, ice packs for my knee, and warm pastries.
For the first two weeks, Julian’s ledger seemed like an unsolvable maze.
The entries were structured around four primary accounts, labeled with the Greek letters Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta.
04/12 - Alpha: 114.2 - [Sigma-9] -> NULL
05/19 - Beta: 88.5 - [Sigma-9] -> EXPORT-CHI
07/02 - Delta: 210.0 - [Sigma-12] -> NULL
“What does Sigma mean to your family?” I asked one rainy Tuesday night, rubbing my bloodshot eyes as I leaned back in my chair.
Matteo stopped writing, setting his fountain pen down. He walked over to my table, leaning his hands on the back of my chair. His proximity sent a strange, warm shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear.
“Sigma was our code for high-value cargo,” Matteo explained, looking over my shoulder at the paper. “Usually liquor shipments from Canada or imported luxury goods passing through our warehouses in Cicero.”
“And who managed the Cicero warehouses three years ago?”
“My cousin, Dominic,” Matteo said instantly. “And my second-in-command, Marco Rossi. Marco has been with my family since my father was boss. He raised me after my father died.”
I traced my finger along the entry dated 07/02.
“Look at the math, Matteo,” I said, pulling up my scratchpad where I had recalculated the figures using basic double-entry bookkeeping. “Julian didn't record the cash value in dollars. He recorded the weight of the trucks.”
Matteo leaned closer, his dark hair brushing against mine for a brief second. “Weight?”
“Metric tons,” I explained, my pulse quickening as the realization took shape in my mind. “Look here. Sigma-12 stands for a twelve-wheel haul truck. Standard load capacity is thirty metric tons. But Julian entered 210.0. That means seven trucks were listed under one manifest, but only six trucks were reported at the warehouse. One truck went completely off the books every single month.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened, a vein pulsing near his temple. “Where did the seventh truck go?”
“It went to an account named Epsilon,” I said, turning the page to a section I had unlocked late last night. “It wasn't a loss or a customs seizure. The cargo was redirected to a private distribution center in Indiana. And look at the signature stamp Julian copied in ink.”
I slid a magnifying glass across the page.
Underneath the coded numbers was a tiny, faint ink mark—a stylized initials stamp shaped like a coiled snake around an anchor.
Matteo froze. His breathing went completely still.
“That’s Marco’s personal seal,” Matteo whispered, his voice dropping into a register so dark it made the air in the room feel instantly cold. “Marco signed off on the missing trucks.”
“Wait,” I said quickly, catching his arm before he could pull away. “Don't act yet. It’s too simple.”
Matteo looked down at my hand on his arm. I realized I was holding onto his sleeve, my small fingers gripping the expensive dark wool. I made to pull back, but Matteo reached out and gently covered my hand with his own.
“Why is it too simple, Clara?” he asked quietly, his river-stone eyes searching mine.
“Because Julian knew Marco used that stamp,” I said, forcing my mind to focus despite the electric heat of his touch. “If Marco was stealing, why would he stamp his own treason in a secret ledger? Someone put Marco’s seal on these documents to make Julian think Marco was the traitor.”
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Matteo stared at the tiny ink mark, his brow furrowing as a new, far more terrifying suspicion took root in his mind.
“If Marco didn't do it,” Matteo said slowly, “then someone set up my second-in-command... and used Julian to deliver the lie.”
