Chapter 33 #2
"Ms. Chen has agreed to share certain documentation with us," Isobel continued, her lawyer voice crisp and professional. "Documentation that may help us identify who was behind Big Sal Russo's death."
We sat. Quentin positioned himself so he could see both the door and the window. I sat beside him, across from Margaret and Isobel.
Margaret took a long drink of wine. Set the glass down with shaking hands.
"I keep records." She spoke quietly. "Of everything. It's how I've survived this long in this world. Every transaction. Every conversation. Every—" Her voice cracked. "Every suspicious payment I've processed."
"Why come forward now?" I asked.
"Because I have children." She met my gaze. "And I don't want them growing up wondering if their mother was complicit in murder. Your father was—" She swallowed hard. "I processed payments for him sometimes. Legitimate business. He was always respectful. Professional. When I heard what happened—"
"What did you find?" Quentin leaned forward.
She pulled a manila envelope from her purse, slid it across the table.
Isobel opened it. Inside were bank statements, transfer records, account information.
"Three days before Big Sal died," Margaret continued, "there was a transfer from a Russo family account. Two hundred thousand dollars to a numbered account in the Caymans."
"Which Russo family account?" I asked, my heart pounding.
"That's the problem. It's a shared account—accessible by senior family members.
Your father had access. Your aunt Filomena had access.
Two of your uncles, Dominic and Angelo. Your brother, Carlo, and your cousin Silvio.
" She pulled out a highlighted statement.
"I can't tell you definitively who authorized the transfer.
But I can tell you the authorization code matches patterns I've seen before. "
"What patterns?" Quentin's voice was sharp.
"The person who made this transfer has made similar transfers before. Always to offshore accounts. Always in amounts between one fifty and three hundred thousand. Always—" She paused. "Always coded with the same internal reference numbers."
Isobel spread documents across the table. "I cross-referenced these reference numbers with other transfers Margaret provided. There's a pattern going back five years. Twelve transfers total, all using the same authorization code."
"Do we know what the other transfers were for?" I studied the papers.
"Some were legitimate business expenses. Some were—" Margaret's voice dropped. "I strongly suspect they were payments for services rendered. Illegal services."
"Hits," Quentin said flatly.
She nodded. "The receiving account for your father's transfer belongs to Giuseppe 'Zip' Lucchese. He's—"
"A professional," I whispered. "I've heard the name."
"He specializes in making murders look like mob hits. His signature is three bullets. Chest, chest, head."
Exactly how Papa died.
"And the other transfers?" Quentin asked. "The previous ones with the same authorization code?"
"Three went to Lucchese. Two went to different contractors.
The others—I don't know. The accounts are too well hidden.
" Margaret pulled out another document. "But there's more.
I managed to retrieve some communication logs from one of the family phones.
I can't prove whose phone it was—it was registered to a shell company—but the timing matches. "
She spread out printed text messages. The sender and recipient were listed only as "User A" and "User B."
USER A: Is everything arranged?
USER B: Yes. The meeting next week.
USER A: Make it look like V. Clean. No connection back.
USER B: Understood. Price is 200k.
USER A: Done. Wire transfer tomorrow.
"V," I breathed. "Vanetti. They wanted it to look like you did it."
"The dates match," Isobel said. "These messages were sent four days before Big Sal's death. The transfer happened the next day."
"But you can't prove who sent them," Quentin said.
"No," Margaret admitted. "The phone was destroyed two weeks after your father's death.
I only have these logs because they were backed up to a cloud service that the user didn't know about.
But I can tell you—" She pulled out a thick folder.
"This is a record of every transfer made with that authorization code over the past five years.
Every suspicious payment. Every pattern. "
Isobel opened the folder, scanning quickly. Her expression tightened. "These transactions... they all point to someone high-ranking in the Russo family. Someone with significant financial authority. Someone who's been ordering hits for years."
"Can you narrow it down?" I asked desperately. "Who has that specific authorization code?"
"Four people," Margaret said. "Your father had it before he died. Your aunt Filomena. Your uncle Dominic. And your cousin Silvio, though he only got access eight months ago."
"So it’s got to be one of them?”
"Looks that way," Isobel said. "And the transfers continue after his death. There are three more in the past two weeks."
My blood ran cold. "Three more?"
"Smaller amounts. Fifty thousand each. Different accounts." Margaret's hands were shaking again. "I think—I think whoever did this is trying to tie up loose ends. The amounts match the cost of—of eliminating witnesses."
"Us," Quentin said grimly. "They're trying to kill us."
"Why this restaurant?" I asked Margaret. "Why meet here?"
"I work here." Margaret shrugged. "Three nights a week, I do the books for the Morettis. It's how I supplement my income. And it's the only place I feel—" She hesitated. "Where my presence won't raise questions. If anyone asks, I'm just here doing my job."
"The Morettis know you work for the Russos?"
"They know I work for several families. That's how I've stayed alive—I'm useful to everyone, loyal to no one." Her mouth twisted. "Or at least, that's what they think."
A waiter appeared at the door. "Can I get anyone anything?"
"We're fine," Isobel said quickly. "We'll order in a few minutes."
He nodded and disappeared.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
"We should go." My pulse raced. "We have what we need. We should—"
The door burst open.
Not the waiter.
Three men. Guns drawn. Faces covered with black masks.
Everything happened at once.
Quentin shoved me under the table as the first shots rang out. His gun was already in his hand, returning fire.
I drew my weapon—rolled sideways—came up shooting.
One attacker went down, clutching his chest.
Margaret screamed. Isobel dove behind her chair.
The table exploded above us—splinters and shattered dishes raining down.
"Window!" Quentin roared.
But there was no time.
The second attacker was already on us, weapon swinging toward Margaret.
I fired. He stumbled back.
Quentin fired. The man dropped.
The third attacker sprayed the room with bullets—wild, desperate. The window shattered. The walls peppered with holes.
Then Stone crashed through the door, weapon raised, face carved from granite.
Two shots. The third attacker fell.
Silence.
Except for Margaret's sobbing and the ringing in my ears.
"We need to move," Stone said. "Police are two minutes out. Maybe less."
Isobel was already gathering documents, shoving them into her briefcase with shaking hands. "I've got them. I've got everything."
"Margaret?" I crawled to where she'd collapsed beside the overturned chair. "Are you hurt?"
"I—I don't think so." She was trembling. "Oh God. Oh God."
"Can you walk?"
She nodded.
Quentin pulled me to my feet, his hands running over me quickly, checking for injuries. "You're okay? You're not hit?"
"I'm fine. You?"
"Fine." But his eyes were wild, adrenaline-bright. "We need to go. Now."
Stone was already at the window, kicking out the remaining glass. "This way. Alley. Forrest's bringing the car around."
We climbed through—Isobel first, then Margaret, then me.
Quentin came last, pausing at the window to look back at the carnage.
Three bodies. Blood pooling on the hardwood. The smell of gunpowder and death.
"Move!" Quentin grabbed my hand.
We ran.
Down the alley. Around the corner. Into the waiting SUV where Serenity sat wide-eyed and pale.
"Go!" Stone shouted at Forrest. "Go, go, go!"
The SUV peeled out as sirens converged on the restaurant behind us.
∞∞∞
We'd survived.
Barely.
Exactly as Serenity had seen.
I was shaking. The adrenaline crash hit hard—hands trembling, breath coming in gasps.
Quentin pulled me against him, his arms tight around me. "You're okay. You're okay. We made it."
"Margaret." I managed. "Where are you?"
"I'm here." Margaret said from the back of the van, her voice small, broken. "I'm alive."
"Isobel?"
"Unharmed." Our lawyer's voice was steadier than it should be. "And I have everything. Every document. Every transfer record. The communication logs."
"But it's not enough, is it?" I looked at the papers scattered across the seat. "We can't prove who authorized those transfers. It could be Filomena. Could be Dominic. Could even be Silvio."
"The patterns suggest someone who's been in power for years," Isobel said carefully. "Silvio only got account access eight months ago. These transfers go back five years."
"So Dominic or Filomena," Quentin said.
"Most likely Filomena," I said, my voice low. "Dominic has always been more soldier than strategist. This level of planning, this careful covering of tracks—it feels like her."
"Feels like isn't proof," Stone said from the front seat. "Carlo won't accept 'feels like.' He needs hard evidence. A confession. Something definitive."
"Then we force her hand," Quentin said. "We make her expose herself."
"How?" I asked.
"The wedding," Quentin said, meeting my gaze. "We go through with it. Make it big. Public. Make it clear we're forming an alliance. If Filomena ordered those hits, if she's trying to stop us from uniting the families—"
"She'll have to make a move," I finished. "She can't let the wedding happen."