Chapter 2 - The Brooklyn Legacy
An hour later, I wasn't carrying trays. I was sitting in the back of a black armored SUV cruising silently down the FDR Drive toward Lower Manhattan.
Dominic sat across from me, his long legs crossed, reviewing documents on a leather-bound tablet while two heavy-set men in dark coats sat motionless on either side of the doors. On the seat next to me sat the journal, enclosed in a protective clear case.
"Your father was Julian Vance," Dominic said without looking up from his tablet.
My heart gave a sharp, painful thud against my ribs. "How do you know that?"
"There are only three people in North America who understood Venetian-Ottoman hybrid ciphers," Dominic replied, turning off the screen and meeting my gaze. "Two of them are dead, buried in European cathedrals. The third was a brilliant, underfunded linguistics professor who dropped out of Columbia University seven years ago and moved his family to a basement flat in Crown Heights."
"He didn't drop out," I corrected, a sudden surge of pride cutting through my nervousness. "His research was stolen by his department head. He refused to work for people who used history to steal things."
"And yet, here you are, sitting in my car," Dominic noted dryly. "The world has a funny way of recycling ideals, Maya."
"Why do you need this translated?" I asked, looking down at the clear case. "You’re Dominic Russo. People say you own half the docks in New Jersey and three banks in Manhattan. What does an old book matter to you?"
Dominic looked out the tinted window as the lights of the Manhattan Bridge flashed past in rhythmic lines of gold.
"That journal belonged to my grandfather," he said softly. "Before he died, he hid the original founding deeds to the Port Authority land grants—agreements made eighty years ago that keep my family’s legitimate businesses running. Six years ago, Viktor Hale’s syndicate broke into our family estate and stole three books. Two were fakes. That one is the original."
"And the warning inside?"
"The warning means Viktor tried to sell me back my own property using a altered text," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a cold tone. "He intended to use the fake translation to seize control of the docks by morning. If you hadn't spoken up in that room, Maya, my entire family operation would have been liquidated by sunrise."
The car smoothly pulled up to the curb in front of an unassuming brownstone in Park Slope. The street was quiet, lined with oak trees dripping with late autumn rain.
"Is this where you live?" I asked.
"This is where your father’s work stays safe," Dominic said, reaching forward to open the door. "You’re fourteen, Maya. You should be studying for high school algebra, not serving drinks to criminals at midnight. But tonight, you saved my legacy. So now, we make a deal."
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a simple paper check, pre-signed with his elegant, bold signature.
"Ten million dollars is a lot of money for a fourteen-year-old," Dominic said quietly. "If I hand this to you right now, every corrupt executive, crooked banker, and street thug in New York will be hunting you by tomorrow afternoon. Or... I place it in a blind trust, pay off your mother’s medical bills tonight, and you help me finish translating the remaining forty pages."
I stared at the check. It was more money than my father had earned in his entire life. It meant no more late shifts at The Sterling, no more threat of eviction, no more worrying about whether we could afford my mother’s kidney treatments.
May you like
"Does the rest of the book mention my father?" I asked, looking him dead in the eye.
Dominic paused, a rare expression of genuine respect touching his face. "Page twenty-two bears your father’s personal seal, Maya. He didn't just study these codes. He wrote the lock."
