She lives off our parents, my brother Anthony said to his inner circle in the back room of the port tavern.
The days that followed Leo’s death were a blur of cold silence. The police came and went. Anthony tried to approach me, but I simply turned my back, unable to even look at him. Every time I saw his face, I saw Leo’s pale, still form beneath the white sheet.
Marcus tried to offer comfort, a quiet presence at my door. “Clara, I can help you. We can go to the police. This wasn’t an accident.”
I shook my head, my voice raspy from disuse. “No police.”
“But Salerno…” he started.
“No,” I repeated, my gaze distant. “This isn’t for the law. This is for Leo.”
I spent hours alone, sitting in the quiet of my fire-damaged row house, staring at the scarred shoulder that had saved my life once, but couldn’t save his. The lockbox remained on my kitchen table, a silent testament to the truths I had uncovered.
Inside, I had the certified court DNA and paternity test, proving Leo was Enzo Moretti’s son. I had the certified copies of Eleanor Kroll’s death certificate and notary stamp registry, proving the corporate documents were forged. And I had Anthony’s secret gambling ledgers, meticulously detailing his $1.8 million debt to Salerno and his other syndicate associates.
Each document was a shard of glass, sharp and dangerous. Together, they formed a weapon.
My strategy was forming, clear and precise in its brutality. I would not call the police. That was a long, messy road that would only drag Leo’s memory through courtrooms and headlines. This was an underworld problem, caused by underworld greed, and it would be solved by underworld rules.
I knew the rules. I had lived in their shadow for twelve years.
I meticulously organized the documents, placing them into a new, pristine manila envelope. No notes. No explanations. The papers would speak for themselves.
Marcus tried one more time. He stood in my doorway, concern etched on his face. “Clara, you don’t have to do this alone. This isn’t your burden to carry.”
I looked at him, my eyes empty. “It is now.”
I picked up the envelope, its weight solid in my hand. I knew exactly where I was going. Not to a police station, not to a lawyer. To the very top. To the man who understood what breaking the sacred codes truly meant.
I drove through the quiet, darkened streets of South Philadelphia, the engine a low purr. My destination: the private, unassuming residence of Frank “The Hammer” Moretti, the senior mob boss.
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