Chapter 8 - The Boathouse
By three in the morning, the rain had returned, heavy and cold, slanting off the lake in gray sheets that rattled against the wooden siding of the estate’s boathouse.
The interior of the boathouse smelled of creosote, motor oil, and damp lake weed. Two large wooden launches sat suspended from iron chains above the dark, churning water below.
Marco Reyes sat tied to a heavy oak support pillar near the water hatch. His nose was broken, his custom suit torn at the shoulders, his face bruised purple under the single hanging bulb.
Brent Callahan stood near the door, a heavy iron crowbar resting against his thigh.
The side door opened.
Dominic walked in, carrying the black-bound ledger under his arm. Nora walked behind him, her arms folded across her chest, her gray uniform soaked through with rain.
Marco looked up, his one open eye widening in absolute terror as he saw the book in Dominic’s hand.
"Dom..." Marco croaked, his voice wet and rattling. "Dom... please... don't do this... we can fix it... we can go to the board together..."
Dominic did not answer. He walked to a metal oil drum sitting near the water hatch, set the ledger on top of it, and opened it to the page dated December 18, 2014.
"Read it, Marco," Dominic said softly.
Marco pulled against his ropes, his teeth covered in blood. "I don't need to read it! I know what it says! I was young, Dom! I was twenty-two! Salerno threatened to kill my mother if I didn't open that gate!"
"Your mother died in 2011, Marco," Dominic said, his voice flat and devoid of anger. "You sold Mateo Castillo for ninety thousand dollars and a pair of diamond cuff links."
Dominic turned to Brent. "Give me the crowbar."
Brent handed him the heavy iron bar.
Dominic took it in his right hand. The weight was significant, pulling at the torn muscles in his shoulder, sending a spike of hot agony through his chest bandages. He ignored it completely.
He walked over to Marco.
"Dominic! NO! PLEASE!" Marco shrieked, thrashing wildly against the pillar. "WE’RE FAMILY! HECTOR WOULD NEVER LET YOU KILL YOUR OWN BLOOD!"
"Hector is dead," Dominic whispered, leaning close to Marco’s ear so only he could hear. "And you're the one who put him in the ground."
Dominic raised the iron bar.
Nora turned her face toward the dark water churning beneath the boathouse floorboards. She didn't close her eyes. She didn't cover her ears. She listened to the dark, heavy sound of justice being delivered to the wood and bone below, her face set like stone against the rain.
When it was over, the boathouse was silent save for the dripping of the lake water and the rhythmic thud of the waves against the pilings.
Dominic dropped the iron bar onto the concrete floor. It clattered loudly before coming to rest near Marco’s motionless leather shoes.
Dominic walked over to the metal drum, picked up Mateo Castillo’s ledger, and handed it to Nora.
"It’s finished," Dominic said.
Nora looked down at the dark leather book in her hands. She ran her thumb over the frayed spine—over twelve years of pain, fear, and silent waiting—then held it out over the open water hatch.
"Nora?" Dominic asked, eyebrow raised.
"It was never meant to be kept," she said softly. "It was only meant to be read."
May you like
She released her grip.
The black ledger fell into the dark, churning water below, vanishing instantly into the cold depths of Lake Michigan.
