Chapter 6
6
ENNIO
C leaning had to be one of the most thankless jobs on the planet. No matter how well you cleaned something, it never lasted more than a day, and then it was already dirty again. It seemed to make so little sense. Well, other than my kitchen and the bathroom. The first was because my kitchen had to be spotless at home and on the job since I didn’t want to run any risk of spreading diseases. And my bathroom because showering or even peeing in a dirty bathroom was gross.
But my living room and my bedroom? Yeah, not so much. I’d gotten used to the thin layer of dust covering everything. I washed my sheets every week and vacuumed whenever things started crunching under my feet, but that was it. A few times a year, I got a cleaning urge and went through the house like a madman on a cleaning binge, and after that, everything settled again, including the dust.
Today was my day off, and I’d taken a hard look at my bedroom and decided that if I wanted to make a good impression on potential dates, I’d better get some cleaning done. The sheets were already in the washer. I’d dusted all the surfaces and hauled the vacuum up the stairs. Hmm, the curtains looked super dusty. When was the last time I’d washed those? Had I even washed them before moving in here last year? I didn’t think so.
I’d just carried the little step stool to the bedroom when my phone dinged with a notification. My bank app, usually a bearer of benign balance updates, now screamed an urgent notification that jolted me like a splash of cold water. Your checking account is overdrawn.
I blinked at the screen, a frown etching across my face. How was that possible? Oh, wait. I’d treated myself to a new knife set, which hadn’t been cheap. That had to be it. The problem should be easy enough to solve. All I needed to do was transfer some money from my savings account. I had an automatic transfer set up from my checking into my savings, so there should be plenty of money there.
But when I checked the balance on my savings account, my blood ran cold. Balance under two thousand dollars? This had to be a mistake. I was impulsive with money, sure, but not downright reckless, and my savings account should have well over ten thousand in it.
I lowered myself onto the bed and looked at the last statements from my savings account. See, there was the monthly transfer from my checking into my savings. Three hundred dollars from my paycheck went straight into my savings. So where had that money gone?
There had been another transfer, but out of my savings account. Holy shit, five hundred dollars? What the hell was going on?
I’d better call the bank. A knot tightened in my chest as the line connected, the annoying hold music doing nothing to ease my growing anxiety.
“Good morning, Forestville Community Bank. How may I assist you today?” The woman’s voice, cheerful yet distant, crackled through the phone.
“Hi, um, this is Ennio Frant. I noticed an unfamiliar transaction on my savings account.” I tried to keep my tone light despite the panic fluttering in my stomach.
“I’d be happy to take a look at that for you, Mr. Frant. Can you verify your identity, please, by giving me your full address, date of birth, and email address?”
I rattled off the information for her.
“Thank you. Let me see what’s going on.” There was the clicking of keys, the mechanical rhythm punctuating my erratic heartbeat. “Ah, I see. Two years ago, you set up a recurring transfer from your savings account into an investment account with an outside bank. The account is in the name of Fast Lane Investments? It’s five hundred dollars each month.”
“Two years?” My voice climbed an octave, incredulous. “But—I don’t understand. Where’s all that money going?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Frant, but I don’t have access to that information. You’d have to contact this Fast Lane Investment company.”
The name rang a bell, but from what? Two years, she’d said. That was when I started working with this new financial planner. Shit, I couldn’t even remember his name. Flashes of memory zipped by: signing documents, the financial planner’s encouraging smile, the promise of growing wealth. Had I really agreed to having that much money taken out each month? Well, if I had, the money would be in my investment portfolio or whatever it was called.
“Mr. Frant, are you still there?” she asked, her voice pulling me back from the edge of my spiraling thoughts.
“Y-yes, sorry. I’m just trying to make sense of this. Can you stop the transfers? At least until I figure out what’s going on?”
“Of course, Mr. Frant. I’ll put a hold on any further transactions for now. Is there anything else I can assist you with today?”
“No, no, that’s all, thank you.” I ended the call, heading to the corner of my living room, where I had a small desk with an ancient laptop. I was so not a computer person.
I grabbed the big cardboard box I threw all paperwork in and sat on the floor. This would be so much easier if I could remember the man’s name. Something with an R, maybe? Ronald? Richard? No, Rudy. Rudy with an Italian last name.
Two years ago, an online ad had lured me into his office, his assurances as shiny and appealing as the lacquered brochures he’d slid across his mahogany desk. He’d guaranteed a ten percent profit on investments, hinting that it could be twice that. I’d been so eager, so hungry for a glimpse of financial security, that I’d scribbled my signature on the dotted lines without a second thought. A monthly contribution from my savings to an investment account—it all seemed so smart, so grownup.
But maybe I was panicking over nothing. The money was probably safely invested in an account he had managed for me, right? Still, unease trickled down my spine. If that was the case, why hadn’t I heard anything from him? Shouldn’t I have received statements? Then again, maybe I had and I’d thrown them in here, unopened. Lord knew that wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities.
Urgency fueled me as I upended the box and rummaged through the contents. Bills adorned with past-due stamps, glossy takeout menus, and expired coupons swirled around me, and receipts from splurges I couldn’t even remember seemed to mock me. My hands, usually steady when they plated a dish, shook as if I were defusing a bomb.
Wait, there it was. There, partially hidden under an old Chinese food menu, was a letter with a business card stapled to it. Rudy Catanzaro - Financial Planner was embossed in sleek, confident letters. My heart leaped, and for a moment, I could almost breathe again.
“Gotcha,” I whispered, clutching the card as if it held the solution to all my problems.
I took a quick glance at the letter, which was a confirmation of him investing my money. I’d given him fifteen thousand dollars initially and then two hundred dollars a month from my savings. Two hundred, not five, so what had happened? If he’d taken five hundred for two years, plus the initial investment, he had almost thirty thousand dollars of my money. Plus, a ten percent profit for two years was… Math had never been my strongest point, but that had to be around around thirty-three thousand, right?
The money had to be there. It had to be. It couldn’t have disappeared. Rudy’s number was my next step, my hope that this was some dreadful misunderstanding, that my dreams hadn’t been drained along with my bank account.
My fingers danced across the phone’s screen, trembling as they tapped out Rudy’s number. I clutched the business card between my knuckles like a talisman, willing it to protect me from whatever financial abyss I was staring into. The phone rang once, twice, and I paced in the kitchen, restlessly waiting for him to answer.
“Come on, come on,” I muttered under my breath.
“Hello?” The voice that answered was crisp, authoritative, and decidedly not Rudy’s. Confusion latched onto the tension already coiling in my gut.
“Hi, uh, this is Ennio Frant. I’m looking for Rudy Catanzaro,” I stumbled over the words, each feeling like a stone I had to lift.
“Are you a client of his?”
“Yeah. Is he available?”
“This is Special Agent Derek Marshall with the FBI,” the voice replied, and the room suddenly felt colder.
“FBI?” I echoed, my voice cracking like thin ice beneath winter boots. “Why— What does this have to do with Rudy?”
“Mr. Frant, I regret to inform you that Rudy Catanzaro is wanted by the FBI for embezzlement. Several of his former clients have filed claims against him,” Agent Marshall said, and his words hit me like a freight train.
“E-embezzlement?”
“He overinflated his fee and invested in risky projects that rarely panned out. Was he managing an investment account for you?”
“Yeah, he…” My throat was so tight I could barely get the words out. “I haven’t made an exact calculation yet, but I think maybe twenty-seven thousand dollars.”
“I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Frant, but it’s highly unlikely you’ll be able to recover any funds transferred to his control.”
The room spun, and I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter for support. The money was gone? All of it? “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so,” the agent replied, a note of sympathy threading through his professional detachment. “Mr. Catanzaro has drained all accounts he managed and fled the country. I understand this is difficult news. We’re doing everything we can. I’d like your contact information, please, so an agent can set up an interview with you and gather information on your case. We can add it to the others.”
I gave him my full name and phone number, feeling like a robot. “Thank you,” I managed to say, though the words tasted like ash. I ended the call, my hand dropping to my side, the phone slipping from my grasp and landing on the kitchen floor.
Gone.
The money was gone. My life savings were gone, vanished. Everything I had worked for since I was eighteen had been stolen from me.
Tears stung the corners of my eyes, betrayal leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. The room seemed to contract around me as I struggled to breathe through the heavy weight on my chest. With each labored breath, reality sank its claws deeper into my heart. How could I have been so gullible? So trusting? Rudy had seemed so…sincere.
But had he? Or had I ignored warning signs and red flags, like with Declan? Had I wanted it to be real so badly that I’d turned a blind eye toward any evidence to the contrary?
I clutched the counter, the cool granite grounding me as I fought back the sobs clawing their way up my throat. But then the first tear broke free, carving a hot path down my cheek. More followed until it turned into a deluge like an autumn storm. I slid down to the floor, cradling my head in my hands. How could I have let this happen?
I didn’t know how long I sat there, time slipping away as easily as my dreams had. Eventually, the torrent of tears subsided to quiet whimpers, my body spent from the emotional upheaval. I was left hollow, a shell of the man who had woken up that morning with hope in his heart.
Rudy had assured me investing was a smart move and he’d take care of everything. How could I have been so foolish? Auden, with his measured decisions and insight into people’s true intentions, would’ve seen through Rudy Catanzaro. He would’ve questioned the promises Rudy made and would’ve immediately dismissed them for being unrealistic. The comparison was a blade twisting in my gut, sharpened by years of feeling like I was forever playing catch-up to my brother’s shadow.
I sank into the couch, a well-loved piece that had survived multiple redecorations, the fabric beneath my fingers grounding me to the moment. I’d invested in my house, so I had that—but I’d have to sell it to get access to that money. Without my savings, what was next? Starting over at thirty-six wasn’t just daunting. It was horrifying.
The devastation was complete, and in its wake, only one thing remained certain: I had to find a way to rebuild. Even if I didn’t see a tunnel right now, let alone the light at the end of it.