Chapter 6 - The Brother Vincent Never Knew He Had
Gavin Mercer entered Vincent’s house through the front door.
No guns.
No twelve-man crew.
No blond smirk.
Just a tired forty-two-year-old man carrying a photograph of his mother.
Luca searched him.
Twice.
Gavin rolled his eyes.
“You always were obsessive.”
Luca stiffened.
“You knew me?”
“Since we were teenagers.”
“What?”
Carlo had connected them years earlier without either knowing the full truth.
Gavin was the hidden Costello son.
Luca was Carlo’s hidden son.
Both had been moved like pieces on a board.
Vincent watched from across the library.
“You tried to kill me two nights ago.”
Gavin nodded.
“Yes.”
“You sound disturbingly comfortable admitting that.”
“I had bad information.”
“That usually earns an apology, not attempted murder.”
“Sorry.”
I almost laughed.
Vincent did not.
Gavin placed the photograph down.
Evelyn Mercer sat in a chair holding that day’s newspaper.
Alive.
A bruise at her temple, nothing worse visible.
“You have twelve hours?” I asked.
“Less now.”
“And Carlo thinks I know where Antonio’s ledger is.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Joseph told somebody before he died.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
My throat closed.
“Mom?”
“Marie Russo knew.”
“My mother died four years before Dad.”
Gavin shook his head.
“No.”
Every old fact was apparently optional.
“When Antonio’s ledger disappeared, Joseph told Carlo he had already given it to Marie.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Maybe it did.
Mom died after a long illness.
Before she died, she gave me her jewelry box, recipes, letters.
No ledger.
Then I remembered something.
Her funeral.
Dad took one item from her hospital room.
A white ceramic sugar jar.
Mom always kept it beside the stove.
Dad brought it to the bakery.
It remained there for years.
Where was it now?
I pictured the kitchen.
Shelf near the mixer.
The fire.
“No.”
Vincent looked at me.
“What?”
“The sugar jar.”
We returned to the burned bakery with fire investigators’ permission.
The ceramic jar was shattered.
Nothing inside.
I sat among the debris.
“Gone.”
Gavin crouched.
“Could Joseph have moved it?”
Maybe.
Then I saw the cupcakes.
One smashed display tray had fallen into the basement stairwell.
Pink frosting dried against blackened tile.
Dad always said Mom hid things “where sweetness turns bitter.”
I had thought it was one of her dramatic expressions about life.
Maybe not.
The bakery’s basement once held a coal cellar.
Dad converted half into dry storage.
Behind shelves sat an old cast-iron sugar grinder from Mom’s family bakery.
Nobody used it.
We moved the shelves.
Vincent found a removable plate.
Inside was a wrapped packet.
Antonio Costello’s private ledger.
Gavin laughed.
“Your parents were exhausting.”
“You have no idea.”
This ledger was different.
Not money.
Confessions.
Antonio documented what he knew.
Who ordered violence.
Who had been framed.
Which politicians received favors.
Which businesses had been coerced.
If released publicly, it could destroy men who had been protected for decades.
Including parts of Vincent’s empire.
He read silently.
Then closed it.
Gavin watched.
“What are you going to do?”
“Release it.”
Luca stared.
“Boss.”
“All of it.”
“You’ll lose companies.”
“Yes.”
“People could be charged.”
“If they committed crimes, that sounds appropriate.”
Gavin looked suspicious.
“Just like that?”
“No.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Nothing about this is ‘just like that.’”
He touched the ledger.
“My father built power by convincing himself his rules were different.”
“He protected people too,” Gavin said.
“Yes.”
“Helped neighborhoods.”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re going to destroy everything?”
“No.”
Vincent looked toward me.
“I’m going to stop pretending the good erases the bad.”
I did not know when I started loving him.
That was terrifying.
Maybe I did not yet.
Maybe I was simply seeing the man he could become.
We contacted federal attorney Melissa Grant through Rebecca Sloan.
No local police.
Dad’s ledger showed too many old connections.
A secure meeting was arranged.
But first, Evelyn and Sofia.
We could not risk them.
Gavin suggested giving Carlo the ledger.
Vincent refused.
I suggested giving him me.
Both men shouted no simultaneously.
“Very touching,” I said.
“Maggie,” Vincent warned.
“He wants me.”
“Exactly.”
“He doesn’t expect me to come willingly.”
“Because that would be insane.”
“He underestimates me.”
Gavin sighed.
“That part is true.”
Our plan involved a controlled exchange with federal surveillance.
Carlo would believe the ledger and I were arriving together.
Neither would actually be unprotected.
At least that was the idea.
Before we left, Vincent stopped me.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes.”
“This is not your responsibility.”
“My father died because of this.”
“And he would probably tell you not to repeat his mistake.”
I smiled sadly.
“He would.”
“Then listen.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re preparing to walk toward a homicidal manipulator.”
“I’ve had a strange week.”
Vincent caught my hand.
Not hard.
Just enough.
“Maggie.”
I looked at him.
For once, the terrifying Vincent Costello had nothing intimidating in his face.
Only fear.
“I can’t lose another person because of my family.”
“You didn’t send me into that alley.”
“No.”
“You didn’t make Dad work for Antonio.”
“No.”
“You didn’t create Carlo.”
“No.”
“Then stop claiming responsibility for everybody’s choices.”
He stared.
“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”
“I’m a baker. We measure things.”
He laughed softly.
Then kissed me.
Brief.
Unexpected.
Warm.
When he pulled back, I whispered:
“That was either extremely romantic or terrible timing.”
“Both.”
“Good.”
Then Luca entered.
“I hate to interrupt whatever emotionally irresponsible thing is happening.”
Vincent glared.
Luca almost smiled.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
He showed us surveillance footage from the meeting site.
An abandoned meatpacking plant.
Carlo was there.
Evelyn.
Sofia.
And somebody else.
A woman tied to a chair.
I leaned closer.
My heart stopped.
Impossible.
She was older.
Thinner.
Gray-haired.
But I knew her face.
Every childhood birthday.
Every Christmas photograph.
Every night she tucked me into bed.
“My mother.”
Vincent caught me before my knees gave out.
“No,” I whispered.
Gavin stared.
“Marie Russo?”
“My mother died twenty-eight years ago.”
Except the woman on the screen lifted her head.
Looked directly into the camera Carlo had deliberately placed.
And mouthed one word.
Maggie.
May you like
My mother was alive.
And every truth my father left behind had just become a lie all over again.
