Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Secrets
It took ten minutes after the sound of the car engine faded into the distance before Clara lifted the subfloor hatch. She looked down at me, her face pale, sweat bead on her forehead, but her eyes held a new, burning fire.
“Get up,” she said flatly.
I hauled myself up out of the hole, every muscle in my body protesting. I leaned heavily against the stainless steel prep table, clutching my side where two ribs were undoubtedly cracked.
“Why did you lie for me?” I asked, looking at her intently. “You could have handed me over. He would have given you money. He would have left you alone.”
“Vincent Moretti never leaves anyone alone,” Clara said, turning her back to grab a clean strip of cloth to finish bandaging my head. “My husband worked as an accountant for your family’s shipping company. Three years ago, he came home terrified. He said he found accounts linked to human trafficking and arms trades run through the North End piers. He said he was going to take the key to the vault where the physical paper trails were kept and go to the federal prosecutors.”
She stepped up to me and tied the bandage tightly around my head, her fingers trembling slightly against my skin.
“Two days later, his car went off the bridge,” she continued, staring directly into my eyes. “They said it was an accident. They said he was deep in debt to loan sharks. But I knew better. Julian wasn’t a gambler. He was a good man. And now you show up with his key.”
“This key isn’t just for a vault,” I explained, pulling the silver object from my pocket and placing it between us on the stainless steel table. “It’s the key to a safety deposit box at the Boston Harbor Trust. Inside that box is the drive containing every off-the-books transaction Vincent made while our father was dying. Vincent tried to kill me tonight because I realized he wasn't just usurping control of the family business—he was setting up a network that would burn half the city down to build his empire.”
Lily timidly walked into the room, holding her whale umbrella like a walking stick. She looked up at me, her dark eyes filled with curiosity rather than fear.
“Does your head still leak, mister?” she asked softly.
I looked down at the tiny girl who had saved my life with a paper napkin. “No, sweetheart. Your mom fixed it.”
“Where do we go?” Clara asked suddenly, looking around the diner as if seeing it for the first time as a trap rather than a haven. “Vincent’s men will watch this place. By morning, they’ll realize the blood trail was too fresh for me not to have seen anything.”
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“We need to get to the Harbor Trust before the bank opens at eight,” I said. “And we need a place to hide for the next six hours where Vincent’s network can’t reach us.”
“I know a place,” Clara said softly, looking at her daughter. “Julian’s old workshop in Southie. Nobody knows he kept it. Not even your family.”
