Chapter 9 - The Men Who Wanted Riverside
Mia cried when I asked whether she had told anyone about the boxes.
Not guilty crying.
Hurt crying.
That was worse.
“I would never do that.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because somebody knew.”
She wiped her eyes angrily.
“I told my boyfriend you guys were going through old files.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you say what files?”
“I said something about freight forms.”
“Who else heard?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mia.”
“We were at Dino’s. People were everywhere.”
Dino’s was a bar and grill three blocks from the shop.
Half the neighborhood went there.
One overheard sentence could become anything.
Anthony, surprisingly, defended her.
“This is not her fault.”
Mia looked at him.
“You believe me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if you were deliberately feeding information to Vincent, you wouldn’t volunteer where you discussed the files.”
She stared at him.
“That is both reassuring and terrifying.”
“Common reaction.”
I almost smiled.
Detective Mendoza collected the old print records as evidence.
Before she left, she warned us.
“No more amateur investigating.”
Louise raised an eyebrow.
Mendoza pointed at her.
“Especially you.”
“I haven’t investigated anything.”
“You called three retired city clerks before breakfast.”
“They’re friends.”
“You asked them about zoning files.”
“Friends talk.”
Mendoza looked at me.
“Control her.”
“Impossible.”
Anthony said, “Agreed.”
Louise glared at both of us.
The investigation accelerated.
The State Attorney General’s public-integrity office requested copies of Holloway’s old testimony.
A city ethics committee quietly began reviewing the emergency Riverside closure order.
Grant Holloway responded publicly.
He called the accusations politically motivated.
He denied targeting Riverside.
He said Lakefront Urban Holdings was an independent company.
Then he appeared on local television standing beside a children’s hospital donation check.
The man was good.
Polished.
Friendly.
Perfect smile.
“Do you think he believes himself?” I asked Anthony.
We were watching the interview from Riverside’s office.
“No.”
“How can you tell?”
“People who believe themselves don’t rehearse that much.”
I looked at him.
“That sounds like experience.”
“It is.”
By then, Anthony and I had developed a strange routine.
Not dating.
Definitely not dating.
We worked together.
At least that was what I told myself.
He would stop by Riverside with updates.
I would hand him coffee without asking.
He would send me property documents.
I would send him photographs of terrible signs.
That last part probably undermined the not-dating argument.
Still, there were boundaries.
No kissing.
No dinners alone.
No pretending the world outside the room didn’t exist.
The attraction between us remained obvious enough that Louise occasionally made gagging noises when we looked at each other too long.
One afternoon, Anthony found me hanging fundraiser posters.
“You missed a corner.”
“I was getting there.”
“It’s crooked.”
“Do you want to do it?”
“Yes.”
I handed him the tape.
He corrected the poster with ridiculous precision.
“Happy?”
“More.”
“You have control issues.”
“I’ve been told.”
“By therapists?”
“By everyone.”
I smiled.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Whatever he saw erased the humor.
“Vincent.”
My stomach tightened.
“You answer his calls?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Because refusing tells him more than answering.”
That sounded exhausting.
He picked up.
“Uncle.”
I could only hear Anthony’s side.
“No.”
Pause.
“I said no.”
Another pause.
“Riverside is not part of negotiation.”
His expression hardened.
“You should have thought about that before photographing civilians.”
I looked at him.
Civilian.
Apparently that was me.
Anthony walked toward the window.
“No, I’m not threatening you.”
Pause.
Then, with the faintest bitter humor:
“I’ve recently been informed I rely on that too much.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
Then his face changed.
“What did you say?”
Silence.
“What about Robert?”
I froze.
Anthony looked at me.
“Vincent.”
His voice became dangerous.
“What about Robert Hayes?”
He listened.
Then ended the call.
“What happened?”
Anthony’s jaw was tight.
“Your father left Canandaigua this morning.”
“What?”
“He was supposed to meet Mendoza at ten. He never arrived.”
I grabbed my phone.
Called.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
My hands started shaking.
Anthony stepped closer.
“Emma.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not touching you.”
I realized he thought I meant physically.
“I meant don’t tell me not to panic.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
Daniel arrived ten minutes later.
Police were searching.
My father’s truck had been found near a rest stop east of the city.
Keys missing.
No sign of struggle.
No blood.
Nothing.
His phone sat inside the cup holder.
That detail terrified me more than damage would have.
Dad would never leave without his phone after the threats.
“He might have gone voluntarily,” Mendoza said over speakerphone.
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
Anthony remained silent.
I knew he was thinking something he did not want to say.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Vincent implied Robert had something else.”
“What else?”
“He said, ‘Ask Hayes what he kept from Salvatore.’”
I stared.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
My father had already admitted stealing.
Gambling.
Running deliveries.
What else could there be?
Louise entered carrying a cardboard box.
“I found something.”
Mendoza, still on speaker, groaned.
“Louise.”
“What? I cleaned storage.”
She put the box down.
Inside were old Riverside volunteer records.
“My mother?” I asked.
Louise nodded.
“I remembered Maria Russo and your mother overlapping.”
I looked at Anthony.
He stared at her.
“Our mothers knew each other?”
“For maybe six months.”
Louise handed me a photograph.
Riverside kitchen.
2003.
My mother, younger than I remembered her.
Beside her stood Maria Russo.
Anthony’s mother.
They were laughing while serving food.
My throat tightened.
Anthony looked at the picture as though the floor had shifted.
“I’ve never seen this.”
Louise nodded.
“Your mother volunteered quietly.”
I turned the photograph over.
Writing.
In my mother’s handwriting.
Maria says lights mean you’re almost safe.
Anthony sat down.
The exact phrase.
I looked at him.
“Your mother told mine.”
He could only nod.
Another item rested beneath the photo.
An envelope.
Addressed to my mother.
Never mailed.
Louise frowned.
“This was in Maria’s volunteer file.”
Anthony opened it slowly.
Inside was a single handwritten page.
His mother’s writing.
He read.
Then stopped.
“What?” I asked.
He handed it to me.
The letter was unfinished.
Maria thanked my mother for listening.
She wrote that Robert had done something dangerous but kind.
My father.
I read the line twice.
Robert helped me copy records from Salvatore’s office. If anything happens to me, he knows where the originals are.
My heart stopped.
Anthony stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“What originals?” I whispered.
Nobody knew.
Then I remembered Vincent’s words.
Ask Hayes what he kept from Salvatore.
My father hadn’t disappeared because of his old notebook.
He had disappeared because twenty years ago he helped Anthony’s mother take something from Salvatore Russo.
Something Vincent still wanted.
Anthony looked at Daniel.
“Find Robert.”
Daniel nodded.
“With police.”
Anthony’s eyes moved to me.
He knew what I was about to say.
“No revenge,” I reminded him.
His jaw tightened.
“No revenge.”
“No going alone.”
A pause.
“Anthony.”
“No going alone.”
“Promise.”
He looked at me.
“I promise.”
The word carried more weight between us than it would have weeks earlier.
Because both of us had grown up learning what broken promises cost.
His phone rang again.
Unknown number.
He answered on speaker.
Nobody spoke.
Then my father’s voice came through.
“Emma?”
I grabbed the phone.
“Dad?”
“I’m okay.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
His voice shook.
“Because the thing Maria Russo hid was never meant to come back.”
Anthony moved closer.
“Robert, this is Anthony.”
Silence.
Then my father whispered:
“You sound like him.”
Anthony’s face tightened.
“I’m not my father.”
“No.”
Dad breathed unevenly.
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“What did my mother take?”
Anthony asked.
Another pause.
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
My father answered.
“Of who really owned the Russo empire.”
Anthony stared at the phone.
“What does that mean?”
But the call had ended.
And before we could trace it, a message arrived from my father’s number.
An address.
Flint Street.
The abandoned warehouse at the center of everything.
May you like
Beneath it were three words.
COME BEFORE VINCENT.
