Chapter 2 - THE DEAD MAN'S SECRET
My father had been dead for eleven months.
Until that moment, I believed I knew everything important about his life.
I was wrong.
“What did you just say?” I asked.
Salvatore stood slowly.
“Your father was at Pier Seventeen the night I was shot.”
“No.”
“He was.”
“My father never mentioned you.”
“Perhaps he had a reason.”
I looked toward Carmine.
He was staring at the floor.
“Did you know my father?” I demanded.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Salvatore noticed.
“Carmine.”
“What?”
“Look at her when you answer.”
Carmine raised his head.
“I knew of Anthony Russo. Everybody in Bellhaven knew his clinic.”
That was technically true.
My father had treated dockworkers, firefighters, teachers, and anyone who arrived with a toothache and no money.
But his hands had trembled whenever the evening news mentioned organized crime.
I had always assumed he was afraid of criminals.
Now I wasn't so sure.
Salvatore walked toward his desk and opened a locked drawer.
He removed an old photograph.
Six men stood beside a black Cadillac in front of a waterfront warehouse.
I recognized Salvatore immediately.
He looked younger, with no silver in his hair.
Beside him stood Carmine.
And at the edge of the photograph, wearing a brown jacket and holding a medical bag, was my father.
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
“Where did you get this?”
“From the man who took it.”
“When?”
“Three hours before the ambush.”
I studied Dad's face.
He wasn't smiling.
He looked terrified.
“Why was he there?”
Salvatore's expression darkened.
“That is what I've spent eight years trying to understand.”
Carmine stepped forward.
“This conversation is over.”
Salvatore didn't even look at him.
“Leave us.”
“She's a stranger.”
“She's the daughter of a man who disappeared from my life the same night somebody tried to kill me.”
“Salvatore—”
“Out.”
Carmine's jaw tightened.
Then he left.
I waited until the door closed.
“Did my father hurt you?”
Salvatore shook his head.
“No. When the shooting started, he dragged me behind a concrete barrier. He pressed his hands against my bleeding face and told me to stay awake.”
My eyes burned.
“He saved you?”
“He tried.”
“Then why did you never contact him?”
“Because when I woke up, I was told he had sold information to my enemies.”
I stared.
“Who told you?”
Salvatore looked toward the door.
“My brother.”
Before I could respond, my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
It showed my father's clinic.
Taken from across the street.
Seconds earlier.
Below it was a message.
YOUR FATHER DIED BECAUSE HE COULDN'T KEEP HIS MOUTH SHUT.
May you like
Then another message arrived.
IF YOU WANT TO LIVE, LEAVE THE BULLET WHERE IT BELONGS.
