My uncle told me I was being shipped off to New Jersey to serve a mandatory alliance contract with a veteran syndicate partner named Gabe DeLuca.
The emergency audit notification hit Vic Ross’s desk with the force of a concrete block. He slammed his fist on his polished mahogany desk, sending pens scattering.
“Devlin, that rat!” Vic roared into the phone, his face purple with rage. “He’s trying to sink me! Eight million in historic liabilities? On the docklands?”
His call quickly connected with Frank Bruno. “Get to Sofia’s house!” Vic commanded, his voice shaking with fury. “Find that old hag’s ledger! The one Leo was carrying! It’s the only thing that could back up Devlin’s lies!”
Within an hour, Frank Bruno, along with two of Vic’s muscle, burst into Great-Aunt Sofia’s quiet Brooklyn brownstone. The nurse, who had stayed out of loyalty to Sofia despite the frozen funds, was roughly pushed aside. Frank stormed into Sofia’s bedroom, ignoring her frail protests.
He knew exactly where to look. He’d clearly been given precise instructions. With a grunt, he moved the heavy wardrobe, revealing the hidden floor safe. Sofia watched from her bed, her eyes narrowed, a faint, knowing smile on her lips.
“Old hag, you won’t ruin Vic,” Frank snarled, prying open the safe door. His heavy hand reached inside, seizing the leather-bound book.
He ripped it out of the safe, not bothering to close it, and stormed out of the house. He drove straight to Vic’s executive office in Manhattan, the precious ledger clutched tightly in his hand.
“Here, boss!” Frank announced, placing the dusty book on Vic’s desk with a thump. “The old lady’s ledger. The one Leo was waving around. It’s here.”
Vic snatched the book, his fingers trembling with anticipation. He flipped open the cracked leather cover, eager to destroy the damning evidence.
But his triumphant snarl died in his throat.
The first page wasn’t a meticulous record of port profits. Instead, it was a thick stack of receipts, neatly bound together with a rubber band. Each receipt bore the logo of “Devlin Forensic Appraisals.” And each one detailed a cash payment from Victor Ross to Marcus Devlin, ranging from $5,000 to $40,000, dating back five years.
Every single bribe Devlin had received for his fraudulent appraisals.
Interspersed with the receipts were copies of bank wire records, showing transfers from various shell companies controlled by Vic to Devlin’s personal accounts.
And stamped clearly on the top receipt, in bright red ink, was a formal, precise signature: “Leo Ross.”
Vic stared at it, his face draining of all color. He flipped through the pages, each one a fresh stab of betrayal. Frank Bruno’s face, usually so impassive, contorted into a mask of confusion as he looked over Vic’s shoulder.
“Bribe receipts?” Frank mumbled, picking up one of the slips. “What is this?”
Vic didn’t answer. He was frozen, his eyes glued to the signature at the top. Leo Ross. The decoy. The trap.
He had sent Frank to retrieve the old ledger, the one with Moretti’s secret codes. Instead, he had been handed a book filled with incontrovertible proof of his own corruption, evidence connecting him directly to his corrupt appraiser, and marked with my signature as a final, mocking flourish.
The real ledger, the one with the ‘V-15’ codes, was safe. And this decoy, left for him to find, was a direct message.
Vic’s phone buzzed again, an incoming call from Don Salvatore Moretti’s main office. He stared at the screen, a new kind of fear clouding his eyes. The trap was sprung.
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