She lives off our parents, my brother Anthony said to his inner circle in the back room of the port tavern.
Back at my small row house in South Philadelphia, the victory felt hollow. The documents were powerful, but I knew Salerno wouldn’t back down easily. He had too much to lose.
The next morning, I drove past the docks. A new padlock secured the main gate, larger and more robust than the old one. Cousin Ray, Anthony’s hulking lieutenant, stood guard, arms crossed. He didn’t wave, didn’t even acknowledge me.
I pulled over, watching. Anthony emerged from the office, looking agitated. He spoke briefly to Ray, then gestured towards the main building. Two other men, clearly not company employees, began installing new security cameras around the perimeter.
My phone buzzed. It was Marcus. “Clara, Anthony changed all the security codes at the office,” he said, his voice grave. “He’s locked you out of the system. Your old key cards won’t work, and your remote access to the company bank accounts has been disabled.”
“I saw Ray at the gate,” I replied, my stomach tightening. “And new cameras. It’s a complete lockdown.”
“It’s more than that,” Marcus continued. “He’s convened another ’emergency’ board meeting. Uncle Dominic and Aunt Teresa signed a resolution. You’re officially removed from all company operations. Zero access. Zero voting power. You’re isolated.”
My vision blurred for a moment. They had cut me off completely. Stripped me of my last official link to the family business. It was a full-blown expulsion, driven by Anthony’s lies.
“He’s afraid I’ll expose him,” I murmured, staring at the darkened office building.
“He’s panicking,” Marcus agreed. “And Salerno is pushing hard. Word is, he wants everything squared away by the end of the week.”
I thanked Marcus and hung up, the weight of their betrayal pressing down on me. I turned the car around, heading back to my row house. I needed to move fast. My forged documents needed to be secured, and the other evidence I had collected – Anthony’s secret gambling ledgers, the proof of his debts – they were all back in my small apartment.
I pulled into my street. Two unfamiliar men were standing near my front door. They weren’t police. They weren’t Salerno’s men. They looked like Cousin Ray’s muscle, rougher, less professional.
As I approached, they moved. One blocked the sidewalk, while the other rattled my doorknob. My blood ran cold. They were breaking in. They were searching for my papers.
Before I could even reach the porch, the front door gave way with a splintering crash. The two men disappeared inside. I heard heavy footsteps, the thud of furniture being moved, and the unmistakable sound of drawers being pulled open. I was trapped.
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