Chapter 5 - THE MESSAGE THAT ACCUSED DANTE OF MURDER
M-17 belonged to a private vault beneath an old Manhattan bank.
Dante knew because his father had owned box M-16.
At two in the morning, he arranged access.
Talia came armed.
He noticed.
“You planning to shoot the deposit box?”
“Depends what’s inside.”
The steel door opened.
Box M-17 was small enough to carry.
Inside were three things.
A flash drive.
A photograph of Vincent, Elena, Noah, and Talia taken days before the fire.
And an old digital recorder.
Talia picked it up with trembling fingers.
A label had been taped across the back.
FOR NATALIA.
She pressed play.
Static.
Then her father’s voice.
“If you’re hearing this, I failed.”
Talia closed her eyes.
Vincent continued.
“Your mother discovered something that could destroy powerful people. Police. Judges. Men inside the Marchelli organization. She copied everything.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“The original records were divided. One half went to me. The other disappeared the night your mother died.”
Talia looked at Dante.
The recording crackled again.
“You were children. I changed your names because I believed they would come for you.”
A long pause followed.
Then Vincent said something almost too quietly to hear.
“Natalia, there is one truth you deserve. Elena did not die because of me.”
Talia’s breathing stopped.
“She died because Dante Marchelli found out what she had.”
Talia slowly turned.
Dante’s face was unreadable.
The recording continued.
“If Dante is standing beside you when you hear this, do not trust him.”
Talia raised her weapon.
Dante did not move.
“Talia.”
“My father just named you.”
“I heard him.”
“You expect me to ignore that?”
“No.”
She aimed directly at his chest.
“Then give me one reason not to pull this trigger.”
Dante stared at the gun.
Then at her.
“Because twelve years ago, the night your mother died, I was lying unconscious in Bellevue Hospital.”
Talia’s eyes flickered.
“That can be checked.”
“Yes.”
“People like you can fake records.”
“Then check the scar.”
He opened his shirt enough to reveal an old surgical line beneath his ribs.
“A motorcycle crash. Eleven hours of surgery.”
Talia’s gun lowered half an inch.
Dante picked up the recorder.
“Your father didn’t make this.”
“What?”
“He may have spoken the words.”
“But?”
Dante tapped the device.
“This recording has been edited.”
May you like
He looked at the flash drive.
“And I think whoever edited it wanted you to kill me before we discovered what’s actually on that drive.”
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