Chapter 5 - The Snake in the Garden
The realization changed everything.
Julian hadn't just discovered a theft; he had been manipulated into pointing the finger at Marco Rossi, the most loyal lieutenant the Moretti family possessed.
“If Julian showed this ledger to the family three years ago,” I reasoned, leaning over the papers as the rain lashed against the penthouse glass, “it would have caused a civil war between you and Marco. Marco would have defended himself, you would have defended Julian, and the family would have destroyed itself from the inside.”
“And whoever was actually stealing the money would have walked away with the crown,” Matteo finished, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal intelligence.
He walked over to his desk and hit a button on his intercom. “Gabriel. Get Marco up here. Quietly. No guards.”
Ten minutes later, Marco Rossi entered the library.
He was a man in his late fifties, with grey hair cut close to his scalp, a weathered face lined by decades of hard living, and eyes that held the quiet sadness of someone who had buried too many friends. He wore a dark wool suit with a simple silver cross pin on his cufflinks.
When Marco saw me sitting at the glass table surrounded by Julian’s ledgers, his eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he didn't question Matteo.
“Boss,” Marco said, bowing his head respectfully. “Gabriel said it was urgent.”
“Sit down, Marco,” Matteo said calmly.
Marco sat in the chair opposite me. He looked at the leather-bound book in front of me, recognizing his late master’s handwriting instantly. His breath hitched. “Is that... Julian’s ledger?”
“It is,” Matteo said. He leaned against the edge of the table, crossing his arms. “Marco, do you remember the shipping losses in Cicero back in the summer before Julian died?”
Marco’s face darkened. “Of course I remember. Julian was furious with me. He accused my warehouse crew of being sloppy. We had two heated arguments in this very room. I told him someone was manipulating our manifests at the dock level, but he wouldn't listen to me. He thought I was covering for my nephew.”
“Did you use your anchor seal on the manifest for Truck Seven in July?” I asked, sliding the paper toward him.
Marco pulled a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, adjusted them on his nose, and peered closely at the stamp. His hands began to shake.
“I lost that stamp in May of that year,” Marco whispered, looking up at Matteo with sudden, desperate horror in his eyes. “I told Julian I misplaced it! I had a new one cast in June with a small knot on the anchor rope. Look at this stamp—there is no knot! This was stamped with my old, stolen seal!”
Matteo closed his eyes for a second, absorbing the truth. The burden of three years of suspicion toward his father’s oldest friend seemed to melt away, replaced by an even cold rage.
“Who had access to your office in Cicero before you lost the seal, Marco?” Matteo asked softly.
Marco swallowed hard, his face turning pale as ash. “Only three people. Me, my secretary... and your brother-in-law, Leo Vance.”
Leo Vance.
The name echoed in the quiet room like a gun blast.
Leo Vance was married to Matteo’s younger sister, Elena. He was a smooth-talking former real estate developer who had been brought into the family’s legal operations four years ago to manage their commercial properties along the Chicago riverfront.
“Leo,” Matteo whispered, his voice dangerously smooth. “The man who wept loudest at Julian’s funeral.”
“Leo was the one who suggested Julian’s car was bombed by the North Side syndicate,” Marco said, his hands clenched into tight fists. “He brought us the 'informant' who confirmed it. We wiped out three North Side warehouses in revenge... while Leo took over Julian’s real estate portfolio.”
I looked down at the entries under Epsilon.
“The private distribution center in Indiana,” I said, pointing to the code numbers. “The tax records for that property aren't registered to a shipping company. They’re held by a shell corporation named Vance Holdings.”
Matteo walked over to the window, staring down at the glowing lights of the city he ruled. The silence in the room was absolute, thick with the scent of upcoming blood.
“He killed my brother,” Matteo said, his voice dropping so low it was almost lost beneath the sound of the rain. “He made me murder my allies. And he sat at my dinner table every Sunday, kissing my sister’s cheek.”
He turned around, his grey eyes burning with an incandescent, terrifying fire.
“Clara,” Matteo said, looking directly at me. “Can you prove the connection between Vance Holdings and Leo in a court of law—or in front of the Family Commission?”
“Give me forty-eight hours with his property registers,” I said without hesitation. “I’ll build a paper trail so clear even a corrupt judge couldn't erase it.”
Matteo walked over to me, grabbed my chair, and turned it so I was facing him directly. He crouched down, placing his hands on the armrests, trapping me in his intense, suffocating presence.
“You came into my diner on your knees, Clara,” Matteo murmured, his eyes searching every inch of my face. “And you just handed me the head of my family’s greatest enemy.”
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“I haven't handed you anything yet,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “We still need the smoking gun.”
“Then let’s go find it,” Matteo said.
