Chapter 2 - The Name Behind the Missing Millions
Gabriel lasted another forty minutes before collapsing.
He would later insist it had been strategic.
Norah would later call him a liar.
At the time, there was nothing funny about it.
They followed an abandoned logging trail until Gabriel's steps became uneven. His left hand remained clamped against his side. Blood seeped between his fingers.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Sit down.”
“We keep moving.”
“You fall unconscious while walking, I leave you for squirrels.”
He looked offended.
“You wouldn't.”
“Try me.”
Gabriel sat against a boulder.
Norah lifted his shirt enough to inspect wound.
The bullet had cut through his side rather than remaining inside.
She exhaled.
“That's good.”
“You're suddenly a surgeon?”
“I watch television.”
“Comforting.”
She tore lining from her sweater and pressed it against wound.
Gabriel hissed.
“Hold that.”
He obeyed.
That frightened her.
Gabriel did not obey anyone.
She took his phone.
No signal.
Of course.
“Who can we trust?”
“Maybe nobody.”
“Useful.”
Gabriel studied her.
“You're taking this well.”
“I haven't slept properly in two days, somebody shot at me before breakfast, and I'm currently using a sweater to stop a mafia boss from bleeding to death. I think my nervous system has filed for bankruptcy.”
His mouth moved slightly.
Not smile.
Close.
Then he said:
“There's an old hunting lodge two miles north.”
“Yours?”
“My father's.”
“Does Vincent know?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
“My father is dead.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Gabriel's expression changed.
“No one.”
They reached lodge near noon.
No electricity.
Hand pump.
Stone fireplace.
Dust.
But intact.
Norah cleaned wound with bottled alcohol she found in cabinet while Gabriel insulted her technique.
“You want anesthetic?”
“Yes.”
“There isn't any.”
“Then stop asking questions.”
She wrapped him.
Then emptied his pockets.
Gun.
Knife.
Two phones.
Cash.
Keys.
A folded photograph.
She stopped.
A young woman stood beside teenage Gabriel.
Same eyes.
Same dark hair.
“Who's this?”
Gabriel took photograph.
“My sister.”
“I didn't know you had one.”
“I don't.”
Norah understood death.
“I'm sorry.”
“She disappeared.”
Different.
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
Norah stared.
Eleven.
The orphan trust had received monthly payments for eleven years.
“Gabriel.”
He saw realization.
“No.”
“The payments started eleven years ago.”
“No.”
“You don't even know what I'm going to say.”
“I know.”
“Then say it.”
He stood too quickly and gripped table.
“My sister is dead.”
“Did you see body?”
“No.”
“Then you don't know.”
“My father told me.”
“Your father ran a criminal organization.”
Gabriel's eyes sharpened.
“Careful.”
“I'm not insulting him. I'm describing his résumé.”
Silence.
Then Gabriel sat.
Her name was Isabella Moretti.
Twenty-two when she disappeared.
Gabriel was twenty-seven.
Their father, Salvatore Moretti, claimed Isabella had been kidnapped by a rival crew after secretly meeting someone outside family.
A ransom demand came.
Then stopped.
Salvatore said kidnappers killed her.
No body recovered.
Within six months Gabriel became more involved in organization.
Within three years Salvatore died of heart attack.
Gabriel inherited everything.
“What was monthly amount?”
Norah asked.
“Eight thousand four hundred sixteen.”
Gabriel looked at her.
“That number mean something?”
He shook head.
“Could be living expenses.”
“Or payment.”
“To whom?”
“We need laptop.”
Gabriel's jaw tightened.
“No.”
“You wanted it an hour ago.”
“The cabin is compromised.”
“Then we recover cloud backup.”
“No network.”
“There has to be somewhere.”
Gabriel thought.
An abandoned motel fifteen miles east had payphone and possibly old DSL line in office.
They waited until dark.
Gabriel stole an ancient pickup from lodge barn.
Norah didn't ask ownership.
The motel was closed for season.
Gabriel forced office door.
Norah found router.
Miracle: connection.
She opened backup on secondary device.
“Please tell me criminals believe in cloud storage.”
“My organization doesn't.”
“I do.”
Password.
Files.
Ledger.
Norah traced Delaware company.
Registered agent led to legal-services firm.
Beneficial owner hidden.
But recurring payments went to Northstar Continuing Care Trust.
Beneficiary identifier encrypted.
She pulled incorporation documents.
Then stopped.
“What?”
Gabriel asked.
“Trust administrator.”
V. Moretti.
Gabriel leaned closer.
“Vincent?”
“Maybe.”
Then Norah searched metadata.
The trust had been established by Salvatore Moretti eleven years earlier.
Three weeks after Isabella disappeared.
Gabriel stopped breathing.
“No.”
Norah opened payment notes.
Most blank.
One contained internal memo.
Medication / housing / continued discretion.
Another:
IM status stable.
Gabriel's hands curled.
I.M.
Isabella Moretti.
Norah looked up.
“Your father didn't believe she was dead.”
Gabriel said nothing.
“He was paying for something involving her.”
“Or paying someone to keep quiet.”
Norah found facility identifier.
St. Catherine Residential Institute.
Location redacted.
She searched archived vendor tables.
Nothing.
Then a billing ZIP code.
Pennsylvania.
Gabriel stood.
“We leave.”
“We don't even have address.”
“I know people.”
“People who may be working with Vincent.”
He stopped.
True.
Norah searched corporate filings instead.
St. Catherine had closed eight years earlier.
Assets purchased by private psychiatric-care company.
One property remained.
A secluded estate outside Scranton.
Gabriel stared at screen.
Then headlights swept motel windows.
He killed lamp.
Norah closed laptop.
Vehicle stopped.
Door opened.
Gabriel drew gun.
Footsteps.
One person.
Then knock.
Three slow.
Two fast.
Gabriel relaxed slightly.
“Who?”
“Someone I called before you woke.”
Norah stared.
“You had signal?”
“Briefly.”
“You said—”
“I lied.”
“I'm noticing a pattern.”
Door opened.
A gray-haired man entered.
Thomas Bellini, Gabriel's former consigliere, retired three years earlier.
He carried medical kit.
Looked at Norah.
Then Gabriel.
Then blood.
“You look terrible.”
Gabriel:
“Good to see you too.”
Thomas stitched wound.
When Gabriel mentioned Isabella, old man's hands stopped.
That was all Norah needed.
“You know.”
Gabriel saw it too.
Thomas looked older instantly.
“Your father made me swear.”
Gabriel stood despite wound.
“Where is my sister?”
Thomas looked at him.
“Alive.”
One word.
Eleven years of grief collapsed.
Gabriel grabbed table.
Norah thought he might attack Thomas.
Instead he whispered:
“Why?”
Thomas's eyes filled with something close to shame.
“Because Isabella discovered what your father had built underneath the legitimate businesses.”
Gabriel laughed bitterly.
“We all knew what he built.”
“No.”
Thomas shook head.
“You knew the crime.”
He looked toward Norah's ledger.
“She discovered the partnership.”
“With whom?”
“Declan Walsh's father.”
Impossible.
The Morettis and Walshes had supposedly been enemies for twenty years.
Thomas continued.
“The war was theater. Not all of it. Men still died. But your father and Patrick Walsh were secretly sharing ports, judges, construction contracts.”
“Why hide Isabella?”
“She wanted out. She copied records.”
“Then my father imprisoned her.”
Thomas looked down.
“He called it protection.”
Gabriel's voice became frighteningly quiet.
“Where?”
Thomas gave address.
Then added:
“If Vincent knows you're looking, he'll move her.”
Norah looked at Gabriel.
“Vincent knew?”
Thomas nodded.
“Vincent has been managing payments since Salvatore died.”
There was the mole.
But Thomas shook his head again.
“Don't make this simple. Vincent is stealing money, yes.”
“Then what isn't simple?”
“Vincent isn't working for Declan.”
Norah frowned.
“Who is he working for?”
Thomas looked at Gabriel.
May you like
“Your sister.”
---
