Chapter 4 - THE DEAD BOY IN THE LEDGER
Roman insisted Harper relocate somewhere secure.
Harper said no.
He insisted again.
She said absolutely not.
They stood outside her Queens apartment building staring at each other.
“Someone searched for your dead brother’s file less than an hour after you exposed financial theft.”
“I understand.”
“And you plan to sleep here.”
“That is usually what apartments are for.”
“Harper.”
“Roman.”
“You are unreasonable.”
“It’s Wednesday.”
“What?”
“You said I was the most unreasonable person you met this month. It’s only Wednesday.”
Roman stared.
Then stationed a security man across the street anyway.
Harper pretended not to notice.
Inside, she laid Owen’s letters on her bed.
Seven years since she had seen his handwriting.
Owen had loved astronomy.
Video games.
Blueberry pancakes.
Monopoly cheating.
He hated broccoli with theological intensity.
Deafness was part of him.
Never the tragedy other adults made it.
Harper read each letter.
School stories.
Complaints about hearing aids.
Jokes about ASL.
One sentence made her laugh.
Your son came to the Christmas party. He looks mad even when he gives people presents.
She could see thirteen-year-old Owen writing it.
Then she reached the final letter.
Three months before his death.
Dear Mrs. Moretti,
A man came to the center and yelled at Mr. Daniel because he said the numbers were wrong.
I couldn’t hear everything obviously, but I saw Mr. Daniel sign “don’t tell Beatrice.”
I’m telling you because you said secrets about money are usually bad secrets.
At the bottom was a drawing.
A man wearing a bright red tie.
Harper sat perfectly still.
Daniel.
Who was Daniel?
The next morning she showed Beatrice.
The older woman went pale.
Daniel Cross.
Roman frowned.
“Who?”
Beatrice explained through Harper.
Daniel had been the foundation’s financial administrator eleven years earlier.
Careful.
Ethical.
Obsessive about records.
He abruptly resigned.
Three months later, Daniel died in a boating accident.
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“Did he know my father?”
Beatrice nodded.
Too well.
Roman became quiet.
“What happened?”
Beatrice signed.
Daniel told me money was missing.
“How much?”
Small amounts then.
“What did Dad say?”
Beatrice’s hands slowed.
Salvatore said Daniel was stealing.
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“He accused Daniel?”
Yes.
“Was it true?”
No.
“How do you know?”
Beatrice’s eyes filled.
Because Daniel tried to warn me.
Silence.
Roman looked toward the window.
“My father fired him.”
Beatrice nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You were nineteen.
“He confessed?”
No.
“Then why—”
I trusted my husband.
That silenced him.
Harper understood the regret.
Believing someone because suspecting them felt disloyal.
The forensic audit expanded.
What had looked like a three-year fraud stretched backward.
Five years.
Eight.
Then twelve.
The fake beneficiary system began while Salvatore Moretti was alive.
That changed everything.
Lorenzo had not created the scheme.
He inherited it.
The question was from whom.
Beatrice and Harper spent the afternoon organizing old records.
At one point Beatrice asked:
Are you afraid of Roman?
Harper considered.
Sometimes.
Beatrice smiled.
Good.
Harper laughed.
Beatrice continued.
He frightens people when he does not know another way to protect them.
“That isn’t good.”
I know.
She looked toward the door.
That is why he must learn another way.
Harper remembered Roman’s awkward hands in Murphy’s Diner.
“He’s trying.”
Beatrice smiled.
You make him uncomfortable.
“That’s easy.”
Different uncomfortable.
Harper immediately looked away.
“No.”
Beatrice grinned.
Roman returned after seven that evening.
He looked exhausted.
“We found Daniel Cross’s widow.”
Harper sat straighter.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Did she talk?”
“She already did.”
Daniel had left copies of financial records with his wife.
He told her that if anything happened, the Morettis would come after her too.
She hid them for eleven years.
Harper’s stomach turned.
“What did the records show?”
Roman placed a folder down.
“The original shell company belonged to my uncle.”
“Which uncle?”
He met Harper’s eyes.
“Enzo.”
Enzo Moretti.
Lorenzo’s father.
Salvatore’s younger brother.
The man who had helped Roman survive his father’s murder.
The man who taught Roman business negotiations.
Helped consolidate the family.
Prevented three rival crews from tearing each other apart.
Roman sat heavily.
“He practically raised me after Dad died.”
Harper said quietly:
“That doesn’t change the paperwork.”
His gaze lifted.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I don’t know what I believe.”
“You believed your mother when she found the theft.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the evidence supported her.”
“Then do the same here.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
Harper refused to soften it.
“You told Grant being deaf didn’t make your mother stupid.”
He stared.
“So don’t make the opposite mistake because the person possibly lying to you is someone you love.”
Silence.
Beatrice watched the exchange.
Then smiled.
Roman noticed.
“What?”
Harper said:
“Nothing.”
Beatrice signed.
I like her.
Roman raised one eyebrow.
“I know that sign.”
Beatrice laughed.
Then Roman turned toward his mother.
Slowly, awkwardly, he raised his hands.
Are you sure about Enzo?
Beatrice stared.
Roman’s grammar was rough.
But understandable.
She signed:
Yes.
His next sentence came more carefully.
I believe you.
Beatrice’s eyes filled.
Harper looked away.
Later, Roman walked her downstairs.
“You were right.”
“About what?”
“Sometimes trust is just fear of discovering someone isn’t who you needed them to be.”
Harper stopped.
“That sounded emotionally healthy.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
She almost smiled.
Then the front windows exploded.
Roman moved before Harper processed the sound.
He pulled her behind a stone wall.
Security poured into the foyer.
No gunshots.
Only glass.
A brick lay on the marble floor.
Wrapped around it was a photograph.
Roman picked it up.
Harper leaving Murphy’s Diner.
A red X over her face.
On the back:
THE WAITRESS DOESN’T BELONG IN FAMILY BUSINESS.
Roman’s expression became terrifying.
“Lorenzo?” Harper whispered.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
Roman turned the note.
“I’ve seen this handwriting my entire life.”
Harper’s stomach tightened.
“Whose?”
He looked toward the staircase.
May you like
“My uncle Enzo.”
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