Chapter 2 - The Man Waiting at the Harbor House

The old harbor house still smelled like salt.

Christian remembered that first.

Not the broken porch light.

Not the black sedan parked beside the seawall.

The smell.

His father used to bring him here on Sunday mornings.

Before business meetings.

Before bodyguards.

Before disappearing.

Samuel stopped at the door.

Christian looked at him.

“You’re not coming in?”

“I already had my reunion.”

Christian stared at the brass handle.

Then opened the door.

A man stood beside the fireplace.

Older.

Thinner.

Gray at the temples.

But unmistakable.

Charles DeLuca.

Christian stopped breathing.

His father looked at him for several seconds.

Then said:

“You got taller.”

Christian laughed once.

It came out broken.

“You were dead.”

Charles nodded.

“I know.”

Christian stepped forward.

Then stopped.

Fifteen years of funerals.

Fifteen years of photographs.

Fifteen years of wondering what he had done wrong.

“You let me bury you.”

Charles lowered his eyes.

“Yes.”

Christian’s hands tightened.

“Why?”

Charles looked toward the window.

“Because Richard told me if I came home, you would be next.”

Silence.

Christian stared.

“My uncle threatened me?”

“He didn’t need to say your name twice.”

Christian moved closer.

“You expect me to believe you disappeared for fifteen years because Richard scared you?”

“No.”

Charles walked to a desk.

He opened a drawer.

Removed a photograph.

Christian at eighteen.

Leaving school.

A red circle had been drawn around his head.

On the back was one sentence.

NEXT TIME IT WON’T BE A WARNING.

Christian read it.

His expression changed.

“When?”

“Three days after I escaped.”

“Escaped from what?”

Charles looked at Samuel.

Samuel closed the door.

Then Charles said:

“The airport.”

Christian frowned.

“The plane was empty.”

“That was the story.”

Charles sat down.

“The night I disappeared, Richard asked me to meet a customs investigator at the regional airport. He said the man had proof Victor Voss was selling our routes.”

Christian looked at him.

“Was he?”

“No.”

Charles shook his head.

“Victor was careless. Richard used his company to move information, but Victor didn’t know what was being moved until later.”

Christian remembered Victor in the ballroom.

Fourteen years of silence.

“That doesn’t make him innocent.”

“No.”

Charles agreed.

“It makes him late.”

Christian looked at the photograph again.

“What happened at the airport?”

“There was no customs investigator.”

Charles’s voice became quieter.

“There were two men waiting inside the hangar.”

Christian’s face hardened.

“Richard’s men?”

“One of them.”

“And the other?”

Charles reached inside his shirt.

He removed a chain.

A small brass key hung from it.

“Someone I trusted.”

Christian stared at the key.

“Who?”

Charles answered:

“Your godfather.”

Christian froze.

“Leonard?”

Charles nodded.

Leonard Russo.

Family attorney.

The man who had signed Charles’s death declaration.

The man who had stood beside Christian at the funeral.

Christian’s jaw tightened.

“He helped Richard?”

“For years.”

Christian turned away.

The room suddenly felt too small.

“What is the key?”

“A box Richard has been looking for since the night I vanished.”

“What’s inside?”

“The original shipping ledger.”

Christian looked back.

“The one that proves he sold information?”

“And more.”

Charles placed the key in Christian’s hand.

“It proves why he needed me dead.”

Christian closed his fingers around it.

“Where’s the box?”

Charles answered:

“Not here.”

“Where?”

“Victor has the second key.”

Christian stared.

“Amelia’s father?”

“Yes.”

Christian’s phone rang.

Amelia.

He let it ring.

Again.

Then a message appeared.

CHRISTIAN, RICHARD CAME BACK.

Christian looked at Samuel.

Samuel frowned.

Charles’s expression changed.

Another message appeared.

HE SAYS HE KNOWS WHERE YOU WENT.

Christian looked toward the black window.

“Did anyone follow us?”

Samuel moved to the curtain.

“No headlights.”

Charles stood.

“Richard never follows the car.”

Christian looked at him.

“What does he follow?”

Charles’s eyes moved to Christian’s phone.

“The person you leave behind.”

Christian’s face changed.

“Amelia.”

He turned toward the door.

Charles caught his arm.

“Christian.”

He stopped.

His father’s grip was weak.

But firm.

“If Richard went back to the estate, he didn’t go for her.”

“Then who?”

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Charles looked at the brass key in Christian’s hand.

“Victor.”