Chapter 5 - The Letter Carlo Hid for Twelve Years

Carlo Rossi was waiting when we returned to the penthouse.

Not because he wanted to.

Security had kept him there.

Bianca was gone.

That became obvious before Damian stepped out of the elevator.

Her red gown was no longer in the ballroom.

Neither was her phone.

Carlo looked at the empty staircase.

“Where is my daughter?”

Damian held up his phone.

“Where is my father’s letter?”

Carlo stopped.

I watched his face.

That was answer enough.

Damian walked toward him.

“My father wrote a letter before he died.”

Carlo said nothing.

“Vincent knows you have it.”

Still nothing.

“Where is it?”

Carlo looked at Mr. Harrow.

The old lawyer’s face was tired.

“Carlo.”

That single word did more than Damian’s anger.

Carlo sat.

He suddenly looked his age.

“Twelve years ago,” he said, “Thomas came to my house.”

Damian did not move.

“He knew?”

“He knew I helped Vincent move money.”

“And he didn’t kill you?”

Carlo looked at him.

“Your father was not you.”

Damian’s mouth tightened.

Carlo continued.

“He said I had one chance to help correct what I had done.”

“What did he want?”

“To find Evelyn.”

Damian looked toward his mother.

Evelyn stood near the ballroom doors.

Carlo saw her.

For the first time all night, he looked ashamed.

“I found her.”

Evelyn said:

“No.”

He swallowed.

“I found Arthur.”

Mr. Harrow nodded.

“And Arthur found me.”

Carlo looked at Damian.

“Your father wrote the letter before Geneva.”

“Why give it to you?”

“He didn’t.”

“Then how did you get it?”

“Vincent did.”

Silence.

Damian’s expression changed.

Carlo continued quickly.

“After Thomas died, Vincent came to me with a sealed envelope. He wanted it burned.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know.”

“But you opened it.”

“Yes.”

“What did it say?”

Carlo looked toward Evelyn.

“It said Thomas had changed his mind about his brother.”

Damian almost laughed.

“That’s all?”

“No.”

Carlo lowered his voice.

“He wrote that if anything happened to him, Damian should never sign a family trust amendment presented by Vincent Crowe or anyone acting for him.”

Mr. Harrow’s jaw tightened.

The document Bianca had brought tonight was exactly that.

Damian leaned against the table.

“Where is the letter?”

“I hid it.”

“Where?”

Carlo looked at the fountain.

I followed his eyes.

Then he said:

“In this apartment.”

Damian went still.

“You hid my father’s final letter in my home?”

“It was not your home then.”

Of course.

The penthouse had belonged to Thomas.

Carlo had been there years before Damian inherited it.

“Where?”

Carlo looked toward the old marble fireplace at the far end of the ballroom.

“There used to be a maintenance cavity behind the left panel.”

Damian turned to me.

I already knew it.

Every household worker did.

The fireplace had been renovated twice.

But one narrow panel still opened to reach the old gas line.

I crossed the room.

My fingers found the seam.

The panel moved.

Dust.

Copper pipe.

A black cloth pouch.

I reached inside.

Carlo stood.

“That’s it.”

Damian took the pouch from me.

Inside was an envelope.

THOMAS CROWE

written across the front.

Damian opened it.

The paper had yellowed.

He read in silence.

Then again.

Evelyn watched him.

“What does it say?”

He handed it to her.

She read.

Her hand rose to her mouth.

Mr. Harrow took the page next.

Carlo looked away.

I didn’t ask to see it.

Damian gave it to me.

“Read.”

I looked down.

The letter was short.

Evelyn was right about Vincent.

I was wrong to doubt her.

Carlo has agreed to help locate the original transfer records.

If I fail to return from Geneva, assume Vincent knows I have discovered the accounts.

Do not let Damian sign anything that changes Evelyn’s private trusts.

And tell my son one thing I should have told him while I was alive:

His mother did not leave him.

I failed both of them by making her run alone.

No one spoke.

Then Damian folded the letter very carefully.

Carlo said:

“Now you understand why Vincent wanted it destroyed.”

Damian looked at him.

“No.”

Carlo frowned.

Damian continued.

“Now I understand why you kept it.”

Carlo’s face tightened.

“Because it protected you.”

“Yes.”

“For twelve years.”

“Yes.”

“While I believed my mother abandoned me.”

Carlo looked at Evelyn.

Then back at Damian.

“Yes.”

Damian took one slow breath.

“Where is Bianca?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

Carlo pulled out his phone.

“She sent one message after you left.”

He placed it on the table.

Bianca:

I know where Vincent keeps the ledger.

Damian looked at the time.

11:58 p.m.

The next message came at 12:07.

Bianca:

Do not follow me.

Then nothing.

Damian called.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Carlo’s face changed.

“He has her.”

Damian looked at him.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know Vincent.”

Evelyn spoke from behind us.

“So do I.”

She walked to the table.

“Where would Bianca go?”

Carlo hesitated.

Then looked toward the windows.

“Crowe Harbor.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed.

The old family warehouse district.

Half abandoned.

Half redeveloped.

Carlo continued.

“Vincent kept a private records room beneath Warehouse Nine.”

Mr. Harrow asked:

“Still?”

“I don’t know.”

Damian picked up his coat.

I said:

“You need the police.”

Every face turned toward me.

It was not a room where people often said that.

Damian looked at me.

“You’re right.”

Carlo blinked.

Damian took out his phone.

“I’m done protecting family names.”

He called his attorney first.

Then a federal investigator whose number was apparently already in his contacts.

When he finished, Evelyn looked at him.

“You had that number?”

“I run shipping companies.”

“Why?”

“Because people keep trying to use them for things I don’t approve of.”

Then Carlo’s phone rang.

Bianca.

He answered immediately.

“Bianca?”

No response.

A man’s voice came through instead.

Vincent.

“Bring Damian to Warehouse Nine.”

Carlo went white.

Damian reached for the phone.

Vincent continued.

“And bring Thomas’s letter.”

The line ended.

Carlo stared at the screen.

Damian looked at him.

“He knows we found it.”

I looked at the open fireplace panel.

Then at the ballroom cameras.

And understood.

“He didn’t guess.”

Damian turned to me.

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I pointed upward.

“He’s been watching the penthouse.”