Chapter 4 - The Man Damian Trusted Was Lying With the Correct Facts

Rafael Dorne lied badly only when the truth frightened him.

That was something Damian learned eleven years earlier after a customs officer disappeared and Rafael insisted he had spent the evening playing cards.

He had, technically.

For forty minutes.

The rest of the night mattered more.

At noon, Damian finally went to Pier Nine.

Elena remained hidden at Varga’s clinic under another name.

Marcus stayed with her.

No one in Cross operations knew she was alive.

Damian entered bonded storage alone.

Rafael waited beside the sealed pallet.

He looked exhausted.

“Boss.”

“Tell me how it appeared.”

“We locked at midnight. At one ten, camera feed dropped. At one nineteen, it came back. Night supervisor found the ledger at one thirty.”

“Who discovered it?”

“Luis.”

“Where is he?”

“Office.”

“Who touched it?”

“No one after my order.”

“Before?”

Rafael hesitated.

“Luis moved it.”

“How?”

“Gloves.”

“Why?”

“He thought it was trash.”

Damian stared.

“A leather ledger placed under a light in an empty secured warehouse looked like trash?”

Rafael’s jaw tightened.

“His words.”

“Bring him.”

Luis arrived ten minutes later.

Fifty-six.

Dock foreman.

Worked for Cross for twenty years.

Damian asked the same questions.

Luis said he found the book near the loading doors, not under the light.

Rafael’s face changed.

Small.

Enough.

Damian turned.

“You told me it was on the pallet.”

“It was when I arrived.”

“Who moved it?”

“Luis.”

Luis frowned.

“No, Mr. Cross.”

Rafael cut in.

“You picked it up.”

“I moved it from the loading door to the table, not the pallet.”

Silence.

Damian looked at Rafael.

Correct facts.

Wrong arrangement.

That was how experienced liars worked.

Damian dismissed Luis.

When the door shut, Rafael exhaled.

“Boss, I can explain.”

“That phrase has killed better men.”

“I didn’t put it here.”

“Then why change the story?”

“Because I touched it.”

“You said you didn’t.”

“I panicked.”

Damian stepped closer.

“Why?”

Rafael’s gaze dropped toward the ledger.

“Because I recognized it.”

“You never met my father.”

“Once.”

That was impossible.

Rafael joined Cross operations seven months after Vincent died.

Or that was what his file said.

“When?”

“Three weeks before the bombing.”

“Where?”

“Pier Six.”

“What were you?”

“A driver for Ashworth.”

The world narrowed.

Damian’s voice became quiet.

“You worked for Malcolm.”

“Six months.”

“You lied when I hired you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Ashworth men weren’t welcome after the war.”

“What war?”

Rafael looked at him.

“The one everyone thinks started after your father died.”

The words landed wrong.

Damian had grown up inside one version of history.

Vincent Cross was killed.

The Cross captains retaliated against suspected Ashworth affiliates.

Ashworth defended its routes.

Blood followed.

Rafael was suggesting the conflict existed before the bombing.

“What did my father receive three million dollars for?”

Rafael’s face drained.

That answer told Damian enough.

“You know.”

“I know rumors.”

“Say them.”

Rafael looked toward the cameras.

Damian turned one off.

Then another.

“Now.”

Rafael swallowed.

“Malcolm paid Vincent to move something through the harbor.”

“What?”

“I never knew.”

“Drugs?”

“No.”

“Weapons?”

“No.”

“People?”

Rafael shook his head.

“Documents.”

Damian stared.

“Documents.”

“Bank records. Corporate papers. Shipping manifests. Enough boxes to fill two vans.”

“For whom?”

“Malcolm.”

“Why use my father?”

“Because customs was watching Ashworth warehouses.”

“What was in the documents?”

“I don’t know.”

“That answer is becoming expensive.”

“I swear.”

Rafael’s hands opened.

“I was a driver. Nobody told me anything.”

“Then why did you join Cross after Vincent died?”

The silence stretched.

“Because Malcolm told me to.”

There it was.

Damian stepped closer.

“Spy?”

“At first.”

His hand moved toward the gun under his coat.

Rafael did not move.

“I stopped reporting after six months.”

“Why?”

“Because you saved my brother.”

Damian remembered.

A shooting outside Harbor Clinic.

Young man named Tomas Dorne.

Wrong place.

Wrong night.

Damian had ordered Cross doctors to treat anyone caught in the spillover, including civilians.

“I didn’t know he was your brother.”

“I know.”

“You stayed eleven years because of one doctor bill?”

“No.”

Rafael’s eyes lifted.

“I stayed because you were not your father.”

Damian hated the sentence.

“You were sending dock schedules to Vivienne.”

“Yes.”

His hand settled on the pistol grip.

“Why?”

“She threatened Tomas.”

“Where is he?”

“Florida.”

“Then what leverage?”

“She has photographs.”

“Of?”

Rafael looked sick.

“Tomas killed an Ashworth man three years ago.”

Damian remembered an unsolved body near a freight yard.

“Self-defense?”

“Yes.”

“Evidence?”

“Bad.”

“So Vivienne blackmailed you.”

“Yes.”

“What did you give her?”

“Schedules. Gate gaps. Nothing that hurt you directly.”

Damian laughed without humor.

“You don’t get to define directly.”

“I know.”

“Did you attack Elena?”

“No.”

“Did you know someone would?”

Rafael’s face broke.

“I knew Vivienne was asking about her.”

“When?”

“Monday.”

Elena had disappeared Tuesday night.

“You said nothing.”

“I thought she wanted to scare her.”

Damian stepped forward so fast Rafael hit the pallet behind him.

“Look at me.”

Rafael did.

“She was cutting her own leg open with a needle.”

Rafael’s eyes closed.

“I’m sorry.”

“That word is cheap.”

“I know.”

“Who went to the apartment?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then find out.”

Rafael stared.

“You’re not killing me?”

“Not today.”

Relief flickered.

Damian crushed it.

“If Elena dies, you do.”

He turned toward the ledger.

Paulie’s examination table held ultraviolet lights and magnification tools.

Twenty pages gone.

But one thing remained.

A pressure impression on the page behind the missing section.

Old handwriting pressed hard enough to leave invisible grooves.

Paulie had raised it with oblique light.

Damian bent closer.

Three words emerged.

Not a name.

A location.

ST. ORSON VAULT.

Rafael inhaled sharply.

“You know it?” Damian asked.

Rafael nodded.

“Everyone from old harbor crews does.”

“What is it?”

“A cemetery.”

Damian frowned.

Rafael continued.

“St. Orson was where captains buried people whose families couldn’t ask questions.”

Damian looked at the impression again.

“Vault?”

“There’s a mausoleum.”

“Whose?”

May you like

[COMPLETED] “GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY DRESS! YOU’RE NOTHING BUT AN OLD SEAM...

[COMPLETED] At the Mafia Boss's Engagement Party, I Served His Hungry So...

[COMPLETED] The Mafia Boss’s Fiancée Tried to Dismiss His Father’s Loyal...

Rafael’s face tightened.

“The Ashworth family.”