Chapter 4 - The Secret Beneath Marino Shipping
Dante stared at the photograph for almost a full minute.
Nobody spoke.
The basement seemed colder.
Antonio Marino had died of a heart attack.
At least that was what Dante had believed.
There had been a funeral.
A casket.
A burial.
Dante had stood beside his mother’s grave and watched his father lowered into the ground.
Yet the timestamp printed on Clara’s photograph was unmistakable.
Eleven months after Antonio Marino’s funeral.
Vincent took the picture.
“This could be wrong.”
“It isn’t,” I said.
He looked at me.
“The camera date could have been set incorrectly.”
“Possible.”
Dante pointed toward the loading dock behind them.
“There.”
A banner hung across the warehouse entrance.
CITY FOOD RELIEF WINTER DRIVE.
I searched it.
The event had occurred exactly on the date printed on the photograph.
Vincent’s face went pale.
Dante said nothing.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
We searched the cabinet for six hours.
The records told a story slowly.
Antonio Marino had secretly controlled companies after his supposed death.
Money had moved through holding corporations.
Salvatore had signed documents on his behalf.
Carlo had authorized warehouse access.
Clara discovered it.
My father helped her.
Three days later, Clara died.
But we still had no explanation for the fake death.
Tommy eventually found one.
A private medical record.
Antonio had entered a clinic in Switzerland under another name nine years earlier.
Two months after Clara died.
“He survived,” Vincent whispered.
Dante looked at him.
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t survive.”
Dante held up another document.
Antonio had received treatment for pancreatic cancer.
Stage four.
Estimated survival: four to eight months.
We searched international death records.
Nothing.
Then I found an obituary under the alias.
Anthony Moretti.
Dead eight years ago in Lugano.
Dante sat down.
For the first time, his father truly became dead.
Again.
That afternoon, we returned to Marino Holdings.
The building felt different now.
Every employee became a possibility.
Every old photograph looked suspicious.
Dante ordered a complete internal financial audit dating back fifteen years.
Then he did something I did not expect.
He called Carlo.
The conversation lasted forty seconds.
“Chicago,” Dante said. “Tomorrow.”
Pause.
“No excuses.”
Pause.
“You’ll come because Clara is dead.”
Then he ended the call.
I leaned against his desk.
“You think he’ll come?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he did it?”
Dante looked out at the city.
“I think I don’t know my family.”
That sounded more painful than anything else he had said.
That evening, I insisted on visiting Daniel.
Dante came with me.
I did not ask him to.
He simply appeared beside the car.
“You’re not coming inside.”
“Yes, I am.”
“My brother doesn’t like strangers.”
“I’m excellent with strangers.”
I looked at him.
“No, you’re terrifying with strangers.”
He almost smiled.
Cedar Ridge was quiet at night.
Daniel was in the common room assembling a wooden puzzle.
He looked up when I entered.
“Em.”
I hugged him.
His smile was small and real.
Then he noticed Dante.
He studied him.
“Who’s that?”
“My boss.”
Daniel frowned.
“You hate your boss.”
Dante looked at me.
I closed my eyes.
“I never said hate.”
“You said he schedules meetings like a war criminal.”
Dante’s mouth twitched.
I pointed toward the hallway.
“Coffee. Now.”
Daniel laughed.
Dante actually smiled.
A tiny one.
Then Daniel looked at him.
“You’re Dante.”
Everything stopped.
I turned.
“How do you know that?”
Daniel’s smile disappeared.
“He came before.”
Dante’s eyes sharpened.
“I have never been here.”
Daniel shook his head.
“Not you.”
He tapped his temple.
“The picture.”
“What picture?”
Daniel stood.
He walked to his room.
We followed.
From beneath his mattress, he pulled out an envelope.
Inside was a photograph of Dante.
A professional surveillance photo.
Taken outside Marino Holdings.
On the back were three words.
ASK EMILY ABOUT MICHAEL.
I felt sick.
“When did you get this?”
Daniel shrugged.
“Gray man.”
“The man who came asking questions?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Daniel frowned in concentration.
“He said Dad lied.”
My hands went cold.
“About what?”
Daniel looked toward Dante.
“About Clara.”
Dante stepped closer.
“What did Michael lie about?”
Daniel pointed at me.
“Em knows.”
“I don’t.”
Daniel became frustrated.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, Danny.”
He crossed the room.
He opened the bottom drawer of his dresser.
He removed an old green notebook.
I recognized it immediately.
My father’s handwriting covered the front.
“Where did you get that?”
“Dad gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Before he died.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Daniel looked confused.
“He told me not until the laughing man came.”
Silence.
I looked at Dante.
The laughing man.
My father had somehow anticipated Dante.
Or someone had told Daniel that phrase later.
I opened the notebook.
Most pages were filled with numbers.
Shipment codes.
Dates.
Addresses.
Near the back, I found a letter.
Emily,
If Dante Marino ever laughs again, it means Clara was right about him.
My throat tightened.
Dante read over my shoulder.
She believed grief would not destroy him forever. If he can still laugh, he can still choose differently than his father.
I turned the page.
There was a name.
Finally.
Not cut out.
Not hidden.
The man who ordered Clara’s death was Antonio Marino.
Dante stopped breathing.
The next line was worse.
But Antonio did not act alone. Someone living inside Dante’s house gave him Clara’s route that morning.
Dante took the notebook.
“Who lived in my house?”
His voice had gone quiet.
Vincent.
House staff.
Security.
And one other person.
A man who had been with Dante almost twenty years.
Tommy Russo.
I looked toward the hallway.
Tommy had driven us to Cedar Ridge.
He was waiting outside.
Dante’s face changed.
Before either of us could speak, the lights went out.
Daniel gasped.
Emergency lighting flashed red.
From the hallway came the sound of running footsteps.
Dante pulled me behind him.
The door handle moved.
Then Tommy’s voice came from outside.
“Dante!”
Dante did not answer.
Tommy tried again.
“They’re inside the building.”
A second voice shouted somewhere downstairs.
A window shattered.
Daniel grabbed my hand.
Dante looked at me.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“No.”
Then the door burst open.
Tommy entered.
His shirt was torn at the shoulder.
He held up both hands.
“I’m not the problem.”
Dante stared at him.
Tommy’s face hardened.
“But the man who is?”
He looked directly at the notebook.
“He knows you found Michael’s journal.”
And from downstairs, a voice called my name.
A voice I had not heard in five years.
My father’s voice.
“Emily.”
I went completely still.
The building fell silent.
Then it came again.
“Emily, come downstairs.”
Dante looked at me.
My father had been dead for five years.
Yet his voice was coming from the floor below.
And Daniel whispered something that made my blood run cold.
May you like
“That’s the gray man.”
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