Chapter 3 - THE FORTY-THOUSAND-DOLLAR LIE
My father’s letter was six pages long.
I read the first sentence four times.
The debt is a lie.
Then:
I do owe Varga money. Just not what he says.
My hands shook.
Dominic stood several feet away.
For once, he did not ask to read over my shoulder.
My father admitted he had gambled.
A lot.
At his worst, he owed Varga approximately twelve thousand dollars.
Still dangerous.
Still stupid.
But not forty.
Then he discovered Varga’s gambling books contained phantom loans.
Dead bettors.
Fake collections.
Inflated balances.
Names used to move money.
Exactly like the payments we had found.
My father recognized the bookkeeping because he had been hired to clean part of it.
He tried walking away.
Varga threatened him.
Then Anthony Moretti approached.
Moretti told my father he could protect him if Thomas quietly copied ledgers.
Not for police.
For Dominic Rossi.
I looked up.
“You knew?”
Dominic’s face hardened.
“No.”
I believed him.
Why?
Because his anger looked personal.
Someone had used his name too.
The letter continued.
Thomas believed Moretti was building a case against Varga for Dominic.
So he cooperated.
For almost two years.
Then he realized Moretti was not collecting evidence for Dominic.
Moretti was selling information to both sides.
Varga transaction data went toward Rossi interests.
Rossi financial details went back toward Varga.
Anthony Moretti had turned betrayal into a business.
My father confronted him.
That was when the debt changed from twelve thousand to forty.
“Leverage,” I whispered.
Dominic nodded.
Then my father wrote:
If I die before fixing this, Varga will come after you because Moretti told him I hid the original pages. I did. But not where either of them thinks.
Sam knows the place.
I froze.
“No.”
Dominic leaned forward.
“What?”
“Sam.”
My ten-year-old brother.
My father had involved him.
I kept reading.
I never told the boy what he was carrying. He thinks it’s something from your mother. Keep it that way until you know who to trust.
I stood so fast the chair fell.
“Where is Sam?”
“At school.”
Dominic checked his watch.
Then Paulie’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“What?”
Paulie looked at us.
“The school says someone already picked him up.”
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
“They had authorization.”
“I authorized no one.”
Paulie swallowed.
“The man signed as Thomas Bennett.”
My dead father’s name.
I ran for the door.
Dominic caught my arm.
I spun.
“Let go.”
He released instantly.
“Paulie is calling the school. We will find him.”
“No.”
My voice broke.
“You said he was safe.”
Dominic’s expression changed.
“I know.”
“You promised.”
“I know.”
For three months, I had lived in Dominic’s apartment, worked in Dominic’s restaurant, accepted Dominic’s security because I believed Sam was untouchable.
And now someone had taken him using the name of a dead man.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Sam whispered:
“Chloe?”
I almost collapsed.
“Sam. Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
A man’s voice came over the line.
Calm.
Familiar.
Anthony Moretti.
“Bring me Thomas’s letter, Chloe.”
May you like
Then:
“And come alone if you want your brother back.”
