Chapter 2 - THE BROTHER AT THE DOORWORD NUMBER - 2
Matteo Moretti entered the kitchen with two security men behind him and stopped the instant he saw the ledger.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Matteo was thirty-nine, five years older than Dante, and looked enough like his younger brother that no one would mistake them for anything but family.
But where Dante’s anger usually became quieter, Matteo’s became visible.
His eyes dropped to Abigail.
Then to the marks on her wrist.
Then to Dante’s hand resting on the open page.
“What happened?”
Dante turned the ledger around.
Matteo read his own name.
His face changed.
Not guilt.
Recognition.
Then fear.
That frightened Abigail more than if he had denied everything immediately.
Dante noticed it too.
“You recognize this.”
Matteo did not answer.
“Tell me why your name is attached to her debt.”
One of the guards shifted.
Dante glanced toward him.
“Out.”
Both guards left without argument.
Russo remained near the island.
Abigail stood beside the table, unsure whether she was safer staying or leaving.
Matteo slowly pulled out a chair.
“Where did you find the ledger?”
“Our archive.”
“Who brought it?”
“Russo.”
Matteo looked at Carlo.
Russo said, “It was catalogued under retired construction accounts.”
Matteo gave a humorless laugh.
“Of course it was.”
Dante’s voice hardened.
“You still haven’t answered me.”
Matteo looked at Abigail again.
“Your father was Rafael Vega.”
It was not a question.
Abigail’s mouth went dry.
“You knew him?”
Matteo closed his eyes briefly.
“Yes.”
Dante stared at his brother.
“You knew her father?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Long before she worked here.”
Abigail stepped forward.
“My father repaired cars.”
Matteo looked at her.
“Your father repaired whatever people asked him to repair.”
“What does that mean?”
“He was a mechanic. But he was also very good with numbers.”
“My father hated paperwork.”
“He wanted you to believe that.”
Abigail felt suddenly cold.
Dante pointed at the page.
“Why is your signature here?”
Matteo studied it.
“Because it is mine.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
Abigail backed away.
Matteo immediately raised a hand.
“But I did not authorize a debt.”
“Then what did you authorize?”
“Protection.”
Silence.
Dante frowned.
Matteo leaned closer to the ledger.
“This format existed years ago. Before you controlled the family companies.”
Dante’s expression darkened.
“Our father?”
Matteo nodded.
“Lorenzo had a private system. Certain names were marked.”
“For what?”
“That depended on the mark.”
He pointed toward the signature line.
“This used to mean the person attached to the account could not be touched without direct approval.”
Abigail stared.
“You signed protection for my father?”
“For the Vega family.”
“Why?”
Matteo looked toward Dante.
“Because Rafael saved my life.”
No one spoke.
Matteo continued.
“Thirteen years ago, I was driving back from Newark after a meeting. Someone had cut the brake line on my car.”
Dante frowned.
“You told us you hit ice.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because Father ordered me to.”
Matteo looked at Abigail.
“Your father had serviced the car two days earlier. When he heard about the crash, he inspected what was left of it and found the cut line. Instead of staying quiet, he brought the evidence to me.”
Abigail shook her head.
“My father never said anything.”
“He was protecting you.”
Dante tapped the ledger.
“And you protected him.”
“I tried.”
“Apparently not very well.”
Matteo’s face tightened.
“No.”
Abigail could barely process the conversation.
Her father had been dead six years.
She remembered the closed coffin.
The repair shop fire.
Her mother standing beside her in the rain while an insurance investigator explained that the explosion had made identification difficult.
A watch had been found.
Her father’s wedding ring.
Enough, they had said.
Enough to confirm he had died inside.
“What happened to him?” Abigail asked.
Matteo looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I knew he was afraid.”
“Of whom?”
Matteo looked at Dante.
“People inside our father’s organization.”
Dante’s voice became very soft.
“Names.”
“I never had them.”
“You expect me to believe that too?”
Matteo slammed his palm against the island.
“I spent three years trying to find them.”
Abigail flinched.
Matteo saw it immediately and lowered his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
Dante watched his brother carefully.
“When did you sign this?”
“Seven years ago.”
Abigail looked at the ledger.
“My father died six years ago.”
“Yes.”
“And my debt started fourteen months ago.”
“Yes.”
Dante understood before she did.
“The signature was reused.”
Matteo nodded.
“Someone took an old protection authorization and converted it into sponsorship.”
Russo adjusted his glasses.
“That would require access to archived forms.”
Dante turned toward him.
“Who has access?”
Russo hesitated.
“You. Matteo. Me. Legal records. Two archive clerks.”
“Anyone else?”
“Historically?”
Dante stared.
Russo sighed.
“Your father.”
Lorenzo Moretti had been dead four years.
Abigail suddenly wanted to leave.
Not the kitchen.
The house.
The city.
Everything.
Dante saw her expression.
“You’re not going home alone.”
She shook her head.
“I need to see my mother.”
“Then someone takes you.”
“No.”
“Abigail—”
“They already know where she lives.”
“That is exactly why you are not going alone.”
She stared at him.
Dante lowered his voice.
“You asked me not to turn this into a war.”
“Yes.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Matteo flipped the page.
Several more names appeared.
Many were crossed out.
Some were followed by the word CLOSED.
Others contained only a black dot.
“What does that mean?” Abigail asked.
Matteo did not answer.
She pointed.
“The black dot.”
Matteo looked uncomfortable.
Dante saw it.
“Tell her.”
Matteo sighed.
“It meant collection was no longer financial.”
Abigail stared.
“What was it?”
Matteo said nothing.
Russo quietly closed the ledger.
Abigail understood.
People.
Not money.
Her stomach turned.
“My father?”
Matteo reopened the book.
He searched backward several pages.
VEGA, RAFAEL.
There was no black dot.
Instead, beside his name, someone had written:
TRANSFERRED — ORCHARD 17.
Abigail’s breathing stopped.
“What is Orchard Seventeen?”
Matteo went pale.
Dante looked at him.
“You know.”
“I know the name.”
“What is it?”
“It was one of Father’s old properties.”
“Where?”
“Upstate.”
“What kind of property?”
Matteo hesitated.
“A rehabilitation center.”
Abigail stared at him.
“For what?”
Matteo met her eyes.
“It was never a rehabilitation center.”
Dante’s expression became dangerous.
“What was it?”
Matteo looked toward the open kitchen doorway as though the answer itself might be listening.
Then he said quietly:
“A place where people were sent when someone needed them to disappear without killing them.”
Abigail gripped the counter.
“My father died six years ago.”
Matteo did not answer.
She stepped closer.
“Tell me.”
“Abigail—”
“Tell me!”
Matteo looked at the ledger.
Then at Dante.
Finally he said:
“If this entry is real, your father may not have died in that fire.”
Abigail stopped breathing.
Dante went completely still.
May you like
And from across the kitchen, Carlo Russo quietly removed his glasses.
For the first time that night, his hands were shaking.
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