Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Past
The safehouse was a dilapidated two-story cabin tucked behind an overgrown lumber yard along the Ohio River. The rain hammered relentlessly against the tin roof, creating a deafening roar that drowned out the quiet creaks of the old wooden floorboards.
Marco checked the perimeter, locked the heavy deadbolts, and drew the thick black curtains over every window.
“Stay away from the glass,” Marco instructed, placing a fresh radio communicator on the kitchen table. “I’m setting up thermal sensors along the gravel road. If anyone comes within two hundred yards, we’ll know.”
I sat on a worn leather couch, pulling Lily onto my lap. She was exhausted, her small eyelids drooping, but she refused to close her eyes. She kept her fingers loosely hooked around mine, as if checking every few seconds to ensure I hadn't vanished into thin air.
“Lily, baby, you need to sleep,” I signed softly with one hand.
She shook her head. NO. WATCH.
“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She looked at me, her expression serious beyond her six years. SILAS. WANTS. YOU.
“Why does he want me, Lily?” I signed back. “Because of my father?”
Lily nodded. Then she tapped her thumb against her palm—the sign for paper or money—and pointed directly at the cedar box sitting on the table.
I stood up, carrying Lily over to the table. I picked up my father’s journal again and began turning the yellowed pages carefully. Near the back of the book, tucked inside a secret flap built into the leather lining, I felt a hard, rectangular piece of plastic.
I pulled it out.
It was an old, metallic keycard—the kind used for high-security safety deposit vaults—stamped with a gold insignia: Bancorp International, Vault 402.
“Marco,” I called out.
Marco walked over from the window, holding his night-vision goggles. “What did you find?”
“This was hidden in my father’s journal,” I said, holding up the keycard. “My father wrote that he hid a master ledger. If Silas has been searching for my father’s ghost for five years, this is what he’s been looking for. This keycard proves Silas murdered Matteo’s father, my father, and embezzled tens of millions of dollars from the Varela organization.”
Marco stared at the keycard, his eyes widening in realization. “The old Don... Matteo’s father died of a sudden stroke five years ago. That was right around the time your father vanished.”
“It wasn't a stroke,” I said, the pieces of the horrifying puzzle finally locking into place. “Silas poisoned the old Don, blamed my father for stealing the syndicate’s money, and murdered my father so he couldn't defend himself. Silas has been playing Matteo for five years, acting like a loyal uncle while setting himself up to take over the entire empire!”
Before Marco could reply, the radio communicator on the table burst to life with static.
“Marco... do you copy?”
The voice was faint, raspy, cut through by the sound of heavy wind and gunfire.
Marco snatched the radio. “Don Varela! I copy! What is your status?”
“The estate is clear,” Matteo’s voice echoed through the small cabin. “Silas escaped... he took three hitmen with him. He knows where the river house is, Marco. He had a tracker on your bumper. Get them out of there NOW—”
The transmission cut out into sharp, screeching static.
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At that exact second, the red light on Marco’s thermal sensor display flashed wildly.
Four red dots were moving rapidly down the driveway.
