Chapter 3 - Under His Roof
For almost a full minute, neither Dominic nor Clara spoke.
The photograph remained between them.
Salvatore Romano.
Thomas Bennett.
Two men who, according to everything Dominic knew, had never met.
Yet there they were.
Standing shoulder to shoulder.
Smiling.
Not acquaintances.
Not strangers caught accidentally in the same frame.
Friends.
Dominic turned the photograph over.
A date had been written on the back.
May 18, 2009.
Two years before Salvatore Romano was murdered.
Clara sat slowly on the edge of her bed.
“My father never talked about organized crime.”
Dominic looked at her.
“Neither did mine at dinner.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“He was an accountant.”
“So was Al Capone’s bookkeeper.”
Clara glared.
“Not helping.”
Dominic softened.
“What happened to him?”
“He died when I was nineteen.”
“How?”
“Heart attack.”
“Autopsy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hospital?”
“Home.”
“Who found him?”
Clara’s expression changed.
“My mother.”
“Still alive?”
“No.”
“When?”
“Three years later.”
Dominic looked again at the photograph.
“Natural causes?”
“Cancer.”
The room seemed colder.
Clara watched him.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Turn my parents into suspects because you’re scared.”
Dominic’s gaze snapped toward her.
“You think I’m scared?”
“Yes.”
No one spoke to Dominic Romano that way.
Clara continued anyway.
“You’re scared because this note connects your father’s death to mine.”
She stood.
“And you’re scared because someone arranged for me to work for you.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“But mostly, you’re scared because for five years you trusted me.”
Silence.
Clara’s eyes shone.
“And trusting me means whoever planned this got closer to you than anyone ever has.”
Dominic looked down.
She was right.
That made him angrier.
Not at her.
At himself.
His phone rang.
He answered.
“Yeah.”
His lieutenant, Marco DeLuca, spoke quickly.
Dominic listened.
Clara watched his expression become harder.
“When?”
A pause.
“Where?”
Another.
“Don’t touch anything.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
“Vincent’s car was found.”
“And Vincent?”
“Gone.”
“Where was the car?”
Dominic looked at her.
“Behind your office.”
Clara felt her stomach drop.
Inside Vincent’s vehicle, police would later discover maps.
Photographs.
Copies of Clara’s calendar.
Dominic’s travel schedules.
Security diagrams.
And one handwritten list of names.
Most belonged to Dominic’s senior leadership.
Beside each name was a number.
Clara’s name had no number.
Only one word.
KEY.
Back at the penthouse, Dominic brought in a private physician.
Clara protested.
He ignored her.
For the rest of the morning, the penthouse became a command center.
Marco arrived.
Then two analysts.
Then a cybersecurity specialist.
Dominic questioned everyone personally.
Clara remained in the guest room.
Resting, supposedly.
Instead she opened her laptop.
Dominic appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later.
“I told you to sleep.”
“I tried.”
“You’re working.”
“I’m researching.”
“That’s working.”
“Then fire me.”
Dominic leaned against the doorframe.
“Not today.”
Clara looked up.
He had removed his suit jacket.
His sleeves were rolled.
He looked less like a feared businessman and more like a tired man carrying too much responsibility.
“What are you researching?”
“My father.”
“Find anything?”
“Not much.”
She rotated the laptop.
Thomas Bennett had worked for a regional accounting firm.
Then briefly for a company called Westbridge Financial.
Dominic recognized the name.
His father had used Westbridge decades earlier.
“What years?”
Clara pointed.
“2008 to 2011.”
Dominic became still.
“My father moved money through Westbridge.”
Clara looked at him.
“Legitimate money?”
He gave her a look.
“Right.”
She continued reading.
“Thomas left six months after your father died.”
“Reason?”
“Unknown.”
“What happened to Westbridge?”
“Closed.”
“When?”
“Two weeks after my father died.”
Dominic pulled out a chair.
They spent hours comparing records.
Old invoices.
Archived corporate filings.
Obituaries.
Property transfers.
Then Clara found something.
A company called Bellweather Development.
It had received $18 million from one of Salvatore Romano’s holding companies three days before his murder.
Bellweather transferred the same amount to another account twenty-four hours later.
That account belonged to—
“Vincent Hale,” Clara whispered.
Dominic shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“Vincent was twenty-eight.”
“He could still—”
“He was deployed overseas.”
Clara frowned.
“Then maybe another Vincent Hale.”
Dominic typed.
The account had been created under Vincent’s name.
But the signature authorization belonged to someone else.
Initials.
M.D.
Marco DeLuca.
Dominic stood so suddenly the chair scraped backward.
Clara looked up.
“Marco?”
Dominic’s face closed.
“No conclusions.”
“He’s been with you since before I arrived.”
“Since childhood.”
“That’s worse.”
Dominic walked toward the window.
Clara knew Marco.
Everyone did.
Loyal Marco.
Smiling Marco.
The man who brought cannoli to the office during Christmas.
The man who once slept outside Dominic’s hospital room for two nights after an attack.
It seemed impossible.
But everything seemed impossible now.
That evening, Marco arrived carrying food.
Clara watched from the hallway.
Dominic acted normal.
Too normal.
“Boss.”
“Marco.”
“Any news?”
“Nothing useful.”
Marco placed containers on the kitchen counter.
“Clara awake?”
“She’s resting.”
Marco nodded.
“She okay?”
“She will be.”
Something moved across Marco’s face.
Relief?
Or disappointment?
Clara could not tell.
Dominic poured two glasses of Scotch.
Marco accepted one.
Then Dominic asked:
“Do you remember Westbridge Financial?”
Marco did not hesitate.
“No.”
Dominic watched him.
“Should I?”
“Maybe.”
“Old company?”
“My father used them.”
Marco shrugged.
“Before my time.”
A lie.
Clara knew because Marco’s eyes shifted left.
He always did that when bluffing during negotiations.
She had noticed years ago.
Dominic noticed too.
But he smiled.
“Forget it.”
Marco drank.
They talked for another twenty minutes.
When Marco left, Clara emerged.
“He lied.”
“Yes.”
“What now?”
“We let him think I believed him.”
“What if he’s involved?”
Dominic’s face hardened.
“Then I need to know how deeply.”
That night Clara could not sleep.
The guest room was too quiet.
Every sound reminded her of the bridge.
Metal crashing.
Glass breaking.
Cold water.
Her own breathing inside the overturned vehicle.
At 1:37 a.m., she gave up.
She found Dominic in the kitchen.
He was drinking coffee.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I’m working.”
“So am I.”
“You don’t have your laptop.”
“I’m working on not losing my mind.”
Dominic looked at her.
That was almost a joke.
Almost.
He poured another cup.
She joined him at the counter.
For several minutes they said nothing.
Then Clara whispered:
“Did you love your father?”
Dominic stared at the coffee.
“Yes.”
“Was he a good man?”
“No.”
The honesty surprised her.
“He was good to me sometimes.”
Dominic looked toward the city.
“And terrible to other people.”
“Can both be true?”
“Yes.”
Clara thought about her own father.
“He was gentle.”
Dominic glanced at her.
“Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“He taught me multiplication using poker chips.”
Dominic smiled faintly.
“My father taught me percentages by calculating loan interest.”
Clara laughed softly.
“There’s something deeply wrong with your childhood.”
“There’s something deeply wrong with my adulthood too.”
Their eyes met.
The laughter disappeared.
Something quieter replaced it.
Clara looked away first.
“Why did you come?”
“What?”
“To the hospital.”
“You called.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Dominic stared at her.
She continued.
“You didn’t send Marco. You didn’t send a driver. You came yourself.”
He looked down.
“I knew something was wrong.”
“That still isn’t an answer.”
Dominic’s voice lowered.
“Because the thought of you being there alone made me angry.”
Clara stopped breathing.
“At me?”
“No.”
“At who?”
“Everyone.”
She smiled despite herself.
“That’s very healthy.”
“I’ve never claimed to be healthy.”
The moment stretched.
Dominic’s hand rested on the counter between them.
Clara’s fingers were only inches away.
Neither moved closer.
Neither moved away.
Then Dominic’s phone buzzed.
A secure email.
He opened it.
His expression changed.
“Another message?”
“No.”
“What?”
“The analysts recovered Vincent’s deleted files.”
Dominic turned the screen.
There was a scanned document.
A contract.
Dated five years earlier.
The day before Clara’s interview.
Payment authorization: $250,000.
Purpose: placement and monitoring.
Target: CLARA BENNETT.
Authorized by: M.D.
Clara stared.
“Marco.”
Dominic did not respond.
Below the contract was one additional page.
A handwritten instruction.
KEEP HER CLOSE TO ROMANO. SHE WILL LEAD US TO THE LEDGER.
Clara frowned.
“What ledger?”
Dominic’s face had gone pale.
She noticed immediately.
“You know.”
He walked away.
“Dominic.”
He stopped.
“My father kept records.”
“What kind?”
“Everything.”
“Financial?”
“Names.”
He turned.
“Judges. Police. politicians. Businesses.”
Clara’s stomach tightened.
“A blackmail archive.”
Dominic nodded.
“It vanished the night he died.”
“And someone thinks I can lead them to it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Dominic looked at the photograph of their fathers lying on the counter.
“Because maybe your father had it.”
Before Clara could answer, footsteps sounded behind them.
Marco stood in the hallway.
Neither of them had heard him enter.
He looked at the laptop.
Then at Dominic.
Then Clara.
For the first time in years, Marco was not smiling.
“You should’ve left that buried, Dom.”
Dominic moved slightly in front of Clara.
Marco sighed.
“I really hoped you never found out.”
Clara’s heart pounded.
“Found out what?” Dominic asked.
Marco looked at the photograph.
“That your father wasn’t killed by an enemy.”
He paused.
“He was killed by someone sitting at his own table.”
And then Marco looked directly at Clara.
May you like
“Her father.”
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