Chapter 3 - THE CHILDREN WHO WERE NEVER ON THE MANIFEST
Z
Derek had grown up believing the Costa Syndicate was responsible for everything rotten along the eastern waterfront.
His father told him the Costas ran counterfeit goods, stole shipments, and threatened anyone who refused to pay them.
When the Costa warehouse burned, Salvatore claimed it was retaliation after a failed peace negotiation.
He called the deaths regrettable.
Then he purchased three of the family's shipping contracts at a suspiciously low price.
Derek never questioned it.
He was twenty-seven then, already managing his father's legitimate businesses and desperate to prove himself worthy of the Russo name.
Now he sat across from Isabella and wondered how many crimes he'd mistaken for ordinary business.
“What children?” he asked.
Isabella stared into her tea.
“There were twelve in the records Leo found. Some were teenagers. Others were younger. They'd been transported between fraudulent care facilities and contractor-controlled buildings.”
Derek's expression darkened.
“Are you saying my father knew?”
“I'm saying the documents point toward people who operated under his protection. What he personally knew must be established through evidence.”
“Then why was your family involved?”
Isabella looked up.
“My mother discovered the irregularities while reviewing insurance claims. She wanted to report them.”
“Your mother was Elena Costa.”
“Yes.”
“I was told she handled your family's laundering accounts.”
“She managed financial records. She also discovered something she couldn't ignore.”
Isabella's voice tightened.
“My father wanted to protect the business. My mother wanted to protect the children. They fought about it for weeks.”
“What happened?”
“She contacted Leo.”
Derek stopped.
“Leo?”
“Your brother had been secretly helping her review documents.”
Derek shook his head.
“My brother hated the Costas.”
“Your brother hated people who harmed children.”
That was true.
Leo had spent most of his adult life volunteering at a youth boxing gym in Queens.
He coached teenagers who couldn't afford membership fees.
He paid for their equipment.
He once missed an important Russo family dinner because one of his students needed a ride to the hospital.
Salvatore called him soft.
Derek called him stubborn.
Now the memory made his chest ache.
Isabella reached into the pocket of a clean sweater the clinic had provided.
She took out a photograph.
It showed seven children standing beside a brick building.
Their faces had been partially obscured in the copy.
Behind them stood Elena Costa.
And Leo Russo.
Derek stared.
“When was this taken?”
“Three weeks before the warehouse fire.”
“Where?”
“A temporary shelter funded through a nonprofit called Harborlight Children's Initiative.”
Derek's expression changed.
He knew that name.
Harborlight had received funding from the Russo family's charitable foundation for nearly twenty years.
Its annual gala was one of the biggest events on Manhattan's philanthropic calendar.
Salvatore had personally served on its board.
Derek felt cold.
“Harborlight is still operating.”
Isabella nodded.
“Under a different board.”
“Do you have proof of its involvement?”
“Not enough to accuse the current organization. But Leo found records linking a former contractor to the children in that photograph.”
Derek studied her.
“Where are the children now?”
“I don't know where all of them are.”
Her voice broke.
“But I know three survived.”
Derek waited.
“One lives in New Jersey. One was adopted through a lawful placement after the investigation began. The third disappeared from the records.”
He frowned.
“Who?”
Isabella hesitated.
Then whispered:
“My little sister.”
Her name was Lucia Costa.
She had been eleven when the warehouse burned.
Her silver hair was darker than Isabella's, and she collected tiny ceramic animals.
She loved thunderstorms.
She hated broccoli.
And she believed her older sister could solve any problem.
Isabella showed Derek a photograph of two girls sitting beside a Christmas tree.
The younger one grinned with a gap between her front teeth.
The older girl had her arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.
“Lucia survived the fire,” Isabella said.
“How?”
“My mother got us out through a service corridor.”
“Then what happened?”
“We were separated during the evacuation. I was told Lucia had been taken to safety.”
“By whom?”
Isabella's eyes filled.
“A man wearing a Russo security badge.”
Derek stared.
“Do you remember his name?”
“No.”
“His face?”
“Yes.”
He leaned forward.
“Can you identify him?”
She studied him.
Then said:
“It's someone you know.”
A long silence followed.
Derek looked at her.
“Marcus?”
Isabella shook her head.
“No.”
He felt a sickening mixture of relief and dread.
“Then who?”
She looked toward the window.
“Your father's chief financial officer.”
Derek's throat tightened.
“Vincent Caruso?”
Isabella nodded.
The name struck him harder than he expected.
Vincent Caruso had spent twenty-five years handling the Russo family's corporate accounts.
He had attended Derek's graduation.
He had purchased Leo's first car.
And after Salvatore died, Vincent became the man Derek relied upon to manage the family's most complicated financial affairs.
Derek stared at the photograph.
Then whispered, “Vincent is still my CFO.”
Isabella closed her eyes.
“I know.”
That night, Derek returned to his penthouse overlooking Central Park.
He sat in his father's old study.
On the wall hung a photograph of Salvatore Russo shaking hands with the mayor.
Beside it was a portrait of Leo.
The brothers stood together on a yacht.
Leo was laughing.
Derek was trying not to smile.
For years, that photograph had made him proud.
Now he could barely look at it.
His phone vibrated.
A message from Vincent Caruso.
Heard you had an unusual evening. Need me to handle anything?
Derek stared at the screen.
Then typed:
No. Take tomorrow off.
Vincent replied almost immediately.
Of course, boss.
Derek placed the phone down.
He looked toward Leo's portrait.
May you like
And whispered:
“What did they do to you?”
