CHAP 3 — THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS
The call lasted nineteen seconds.
It was enough to rearrange Vincent’s entire world.
Carmine Costa was alive.
And he knew Mave was with Vincent.
By morning, the safe house had become a command center.
Leo arrived with three laptops.
Vincent’s attorney came and went.
Security teams rotated outside.
Mave sat at the dining table wearing borrowed sweatpants and Vincent’s white dress shirt because her blue gown was still damp from the rain.
Nobody commented on it.
Leo came close once.
He looked at the shirt.
Then at Vincent.
Then decided he enjoyed breathing.
Mave returned to the spreadsheet that had started everything.
Thirty thousand dollars.
Three transfers.
Ten thousand each.
Belize.
New Jersey.
A trucking company called Northstar Transit.
“What do you know about Northstar?” she asked.
Leo shrugged.
“Small carrier. Used them twice.”
“Wrong.”
He looked offended.
“I’m usually wrong after breakfast.”
“They’ve received Costa money nineteen times.”
Vincent approached.
“How much?”
“Two hundred and eleven thousand in eighteen months.”
His eyes sharpened.
“That isn’t in the logistics report.”
“Because it’s being routed through insurance reimbursements.”
She rotated the tablet.
“Someone made it look like damaged freight.”
Vincent leaned closer.
“Who approves those?”
“Donovan.”
Silence.
Mave looked at him.
Donovan.
The man whose convenient illness had forced her to attend the Plaza.
Vincent called him.
Straight to voicemail.
Leo stopped chewing gum.
“That’s bad.”
Vincent looked toward him.
“Go to Donovan’s apartment.”
Leo nodded.
“I’ll take two—”
“No.”
Vincent’s tone changed.
“Six.”
Leo left.
Mave opened another transfer.
A reference code appeared repeatedly.
M-V-31.
Her pulse changed.
“Vincent.”
He came closer.
She pointed.
“MV.”
“Could mean anything.”
“Thirty-one?”
He said nothing.
Mave searched Costa Maritime’s old incorporation documents.
Then stopped.
Initial ownership:
Alessandro Costa — 44%.
Carmine Costa — 25%.
Marcus Vale — 31%.
Mave stared.
“Thirty-one percent.”
Vincent closed his eyes briefly.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“My father owned thirty-one percent of Costa Maritime.”
“Originally.”
“What happened to it?”
“Transferred after his death.”
“To who?”
“My father.”
“Legally?”
Vincent did not answer.
Mave stood.
“You hired me knowing my father helped build your company.”
“Yes.”
“You knew somebody had been watching me.”
“Yes.”
“And you suspected my father’s ownership had been taken.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
“Did you ever intend to tell me?”
“I intended to find proof first.”
“So you could decide how much truth I deserved?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Vincent’s voice rose for the first time.
“So telling you wouldn’t get you killed!”
The room went silent.
He lowered his voice.
“You think I enjoyed lying?”
“I think you’re very practiced at it.”
That hit.
Vincent looked away.
Mave returned to the account.
“Northstar Transit is paying someone.”
She traced the outgoing transfers.
Cash withdrawals.
Hotel charges.
Private security.
Then a monthly payment to a storage facility in Brooklyn.
Vincent looked at the address.
“I know that neighborhood.”
“Why?”
“Pier Seventeen.”
Mave felt the room tighten.
The same pier where Gabriel Vale supposedly died.
The same period Marcus Vale disappeared.
The same war that split Alessandro and Carmine Costa.
Leo called.
Vincent answered.
“Talk.”
Leo’s voice had lost all humor.
“Donovan’s apartment is empty.”
“Define empty.”
“Clothes gone. Safe gone. Laptop gone.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“Anything left?”
“One thing.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
Leo sent it.
Vincent opened the image.
Mave came beside him.
The photograph showed four younger men at a marina.
Alessandro Costa.
Carmine Costa.
Marcus Vale.
And Gabriel Vale.
On the back, Donovan had written one sentence.
THE WRONG BROTHER SURVIVED.
Mave stared.
“Which brother?”
May you like
Vincent did not answer.
Because none of the possibilities were good.
