Chapter 3 - Warehouse Nine
I spent the next two days inside old records.
Not mafia records.
Company records.
That distinction mattered more than people assumed.
Moretti Freight had legitimate contracts, payroll systems, safety inspections, insurance reports, unions, and lawyers.
It also had a history built by men who believed rules were optional if enough money stood behind them.
My father had believed that.
For years, I told myself I was different because I had cleaned up the worst operations.
Warehouse Nine made me question how much I had actually cleaned.
Daniel Reyes died four years earlier in a fire officially caused by a faulty electrical panel.
The fire started at 11:42 p.m.
Daniel’s timecard showed he clocked in at 10:58.
But Sofia said he had been fired that afternoon.
Why would a terminated employee return to work?
Camila found the personnel change request.
Termination authorized at 3:17 p.m.
Supervisor signature:
Harland Pierce.
Reason:
Unauthorized access to shipping manifests.
I stared.
“That’s not a normal firing reason.”
“No,” Camila said. “It sounds like a warning disguised as HR.”
“Who approved it?”
She turned the page.
Operations director:
Victor Moretti.
My uncle.
My father’s younger brother.
Victor had retired to Florida two years ago.
Retired was a polite word.
He still controlled old relationships.
Old men.
Old favors.
Old habits.
I called him.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Luca.”
“Daniel Reyes.”
Silence.
Then a sigh.
“That was years ago.”
“You remember.”
“Warehouse fire.”
“Why was he fired?”
“Stealing documents.”
“What documents?”
“Shipping manifests.”
“Why?”
“Ask Harland.”
“I did. He’s under investigation.”
Long silence.
“What happened?”
I told him enough.
Not Nora.
Not Sofia.
Just the financial scheme.
Victor swore.
“He always had sticky fingers.”
“You hired him.”
“You kept him.”
Fair.
“Daniel reported rerouted shipments.”
Victor said nothing.
“What was moving through Warehouse Nine?”
“Freight.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Luca.”
“What was it?”
“Imported electronics.”
“Legal?”
Another silence.
“Mostly.”
There it was.
Mostly.
The word men use when truth costs money.
“What else?”
“Certain containers were diverted before customs review.”
“By you?”
Victor’s voice hardened.
“By the family.”
My jaw tightened.
Four years earlier, I was already running most operations.
“Not by me.”
“You didn’t want details.”
That landed because it was true.
After my father died, I separated myself from street operations.
I told Victor and two captains to handle legacy routes while I built legitimate business.
I called that reform.
Maybe it was delegation.
Maybe it was cowardice.
“Daniel found out?”
“Yes.”
“He tried to tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Did you stop him?”
“No.”
“Did Harland?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was the fire an accident?”
Victor hesitated too long.
“Probably.”
I closed my eyes.
“Probably is not good enough.”
“It was investigated.”
“By people you paid?”
He said nothing.
That was answer enough.
I hung up.
Camila had been listening from across the desk.
“Do you want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are going to lose things.”
“I know.”
“Money.”
“I know.”
“Companies.”
“I know.”
“People.”
I looked at the photo of Nora that Sofia had reluctantly allowed HR to place in the family housing file.
Three years old.
Blue ribbon.
Bare feet.
“I know.”
We hired an independent fire investigator to review the archived report.
The original evidence storage still existed because the insurance company had retained samples.
That saved us.
The electrical panel showed heat damage.
But not failure before the fire.
The ignition point was elsewhere.
Near the document room.
Accelerant traces had been noted but dismissed as cleaning solvent.
The investigator looked at me.
“This fire was likely intentional.”
Sofia was in the room.
Her face did not change.
Maybe she had known for years.
Maybe certainty hurts less after suspicion.
“Was Daniel alive when it started?”
The investigator checked the medical report.
“Yes.”
Smoke inhalation.
Then burns.
He tried to reach the south exit.
It was locked.
I looked up.
“Locked?”
“According to the original report.”
“Fire code requires it open.”
“Yes.”
“Who had keys?”
“Security management.”
Harland.
Victor.
Night supervisor.
Three people.
The night supervisor died two years ago.
Victor lived in Florida.
Harland was sitting in a county interview room answering questions about payroll extortion.
I called Camila.
“Expand the complaint.”
She nodded.
Sofia stood.
“I need air.”
I followed her outside.
Not because she asked.
Because I was afraid she might collapse.
She walked to the rose garden and stopped beside a stone bench.
“Daniel hated roses.”
I did not know what to say.
“He said they looked expensive even when they weren’t.”
She laughed once.
Then cried.
I stayed several feet away.
Choice.
After a minute, she said, “You can sit.”
I sat.
Nora was with the cook inside making cookies.
Sofia wiped her face.
“I thought I was crazy.”
“What?”
“For thinking the fire wasn’t an accident.”
“You weren’t.”
“Everyone told me to take the settlement.”
I looked down.
“How much?”
“One hundred eighty thousand.”
For a death.
A husband.
A father.
A whole future.
“I signed because Nora was six months old and I had no money.”
“You shouldn’t have had to choose between questions and rent.”
She looked at me.
“But I did.”
Another truth.
I had signed hundreds of settlement approvals.
Numbers.
Risk.
Closure.
I had never met the widow on the other side.
“I’m sorry.”
Sofia’s expression sharpened.
“Don’t.”
I looked at her.
“Do not apologize like you killed him.”
“I owned the company.”
“You didn’t lock the door.”
“No.”
“But you also didn’t look.”
That hurt more because it was fair.
She stood.
“I need you to find who did.”
“I will.”
“No.”
I looked up.
“Don’t promise me what you can’t control.”
Nora’s word.
Promise.
I understood.
“I will keep looking until we know what the evidence can tell us.”
Better.
Sofia nodded.
Then she looked toward the house.
“Nora likes you.”
“That seems dangerous for her judgment.”
Sofia smiled faintly.
“She thinks you saved the shirt.”
“I think she saved it.”
That evening, Nora ran into my study carrying two cookies.
One was shaped like a star.
One was vaguely shaped like a shoe.
“This is you.”
She handed me the shoe.
“Why am I a shoe?”
“You wear shiny shoes.”
Fair.
I bit into it.
Too much salt.
I ate it anyway.
Then my phone rang.
Camila.
“Harland wants to talk.”
“About what?”
“He says he knows who ordered the Warehouse Nine fire.”
I looked at Nora.
“Who?”
May you like
Camila paused.
“Your uncle Victor.”
