If you breathe a word, Mr. Moretti, we both die before we hit the floor.
“We need a place to regroup,” Elena said, her voice cutting through the sudden chill in the car. “I have a small apartment in Greenpoint. It’s off the grid.”
I nodded. Greenpoint was far enough from my usual haunts, a quiet neighborhood. But even there, I felt exposed, vulnerable. Less than $400 in my pocket. My vast estate, my businesses, my reputation – all worthless in this new reality.
A thought struck me. “My wife. Clara.”
Elena glanced over. “Your late wife?”
“Yes. She always kept emergency cash. In her writing desk. For household emergencies, little things I never bothered with.” I had given her a substantial allowance, more than she could ever spend, but Clara had a meticulous, almost old-fashioned way of managing their home. She believed in physical cash, tucked away.
“It’s a risk,” Elena warned. “Marco’s men will still be there. They won’t leave your estate unguarded until you’re confirmed dead.”
“They’ll be rotating shifts,” I argued, recalling the old patterns. “A few hours of darkness, a window of opportunity. It’s the only play we have.”
Elena considered it, then pulled a quick U-turn. The silent drive back felt longer, each passing block heightening the tension. We parked three blocks away again, in a darkened side street. The air was colder now, carrying the metallic scent of an approaching rainstorm.
I moved with the practiced stealth of a man who’d spent his life operating in shadows. Elena stayed with the car, keeping watch. I scaled the low stone wall at the back of my property, dropping silently into the overgrown rose garden. The back of the estate was quiet, the only sound the rustle of leaves in the wind.
A small basement window, usually kept locked, was slightly ajar. I pried it open further, slipped through, and dropped onto the cold concrete floor of the utility room. The house was utterly silent, a profound stillness that felt heavier than usual. I could almost feel the absence of my old life.
I crept through the darkened house, past the grand staircase that Marco and his men had scoured hours earlier. My study was still messed up, papers scattered, drawers pulled open. But Clara’s private writing room, tucked away at the back, was untouched. They hadn’t thought to look there.
Her mahogany writing desk stood against the far wall, elegant and unassuming. I ran my hand over the smooth, cool wood, a pang of grief hitting me. Clara had loved this desk, spent hours here, writing letters, managing her personal affairs.
I began to search, my fingers moving quickly but carefully through the top drawers, then the deeper ones. Pens, stationery, old photographs, a dried rose from our wedding day. No envelopes of cash.
Frustration pricked at me. Had I misremembered? Had she stopped the habit? I pressed my hand against the bottom of the largest drawer, feeling for any false panels or hidden compartments. My fingers brushed against something loose, a slight give in the wood.
I pressed harder, and a thin, rectangular panel beneath the drawer shifted inward with a faint click. It was ingenious, almost invisible. I pulled it out, revealing a shallow hidden compartment.
Inside, nestled amongst a few old foreign coins and a faded velvet pouch, was not cash, but a single, folded document. It was a thick, legal-sized paper, crisp and official-looking. I pulled it out, my fingers tracing the embossed seal.
It was a notarized offshore trust agreement, dated two weeks before Clara’s death. The bold stamp of a Panama holdings firm was clearly visible at the bottom. My heart hammered against my ribs. What had Clara been doing with a Panamanian trust? And why had she kept it a secret from me?
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