Chapter 5 - THE VOICE OF A DEAD HUSBAND
Mateo had recorded everything.
Not elegantly.
Not professionally.
But carefully.
One flash drive contained audio.
Another held invoices.
The third held scanned photographs of handwritten ledgers from Harbor East.
Mateo had been an accountant.
Numbers were his weapon.
Elena had married a quiet man who fixed appliances, hated mushrooms, sang badly in the shower, and apparently spent his final months building a criminal case against some of the most dangerous people in Chicago.
“He never told me.”
We sat at Bianca’s old dining table.
Lily slept upstairs.
Rain tapped the windows.
No mansion.
No staff.
No distance.
Elena held one of Mateo’s old photographs.
“He came home every night and asked me whether Lily ate.”
Her voice broke.
“He complained about parking.”
She laughed through tears.
“He fought with the upstairs neighbor about a leaking pipe.”
I said nothing.
“He was scared.”
“Yes.”
“And I didn’t see it.”
“That doesn’t mean he wanted you to.”
She looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
“People who think they are protecting someone become very good at making fear look ordinary.”
She studied me.
“You sound experienced.”
I looked down.
“Sofia knew something was wrong before she died.”
Elena went quiet.
I had never talked about this.
Not to Vincent.
Not completely.
Certainly not to a woman I had known less than a year.
“She asked me to leave Chicago.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She said Carlo frightened her.”
Elena’s breath caught.
“What did you do?”
I stared at the rain.
“I told her he loved us.”
The sentence tasted poisonous.
“She said he asked too many questions about where we were going, who was driving, what restaurants we used.”
I swallowed.
“I told her security required it.”
“And then?”
“Three weeks later, she died.”
The car bomb had been placed beneath the driver’s side.
Sofia changed seats that morning because she wanted to review invitations with the assistant driving.
One decision.
That was all death needed.
“I blamed Bellini.”
“Why?”
“Evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Phone records. Payment to the mechanic. Bellini associate connected to explosives.”
Elena stared.
“And now?”
“Mateo’s recording says Carlo told Bellini I still blamed him.”
“Maybe Bellini did it and Carlo knew.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe Carlo ordered it.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe Mateo misunderstood.”
“Yes.”
Elena looked almost frustrated.
“You keep saying yes.”
“Because we don’t know.”
She was quiet.
Then she reached across the table.
Her fingers touched mine.
I froze.
Not because I disliked it.
Because the touch was gentle.
I knew desire.
I knew women who wanted access.
I knew performance.
Gentleness still unsettled me.
“You loved her,” Elena said.
“Yes.”
“Then whatever truth comes next does not erase that.”
My throat tightened.
I looked at her hand.
She withdrew it slowly.
I wanted it back.
Before I could say anything, Vincent entered carrying a laptop.
“Found the most recent file.”
“What?”
“Mateo recorded this four days before he died.”
Elena straightened.
Vincent placed the laptop between us.
Audio began.
Mateo’s voice.
“October twenty-first. If Elena hears this, I’m sorry.”
Her eyes immediately filled.
“I didn’t tell you because you would have asked me to go to police.”
A shaky laugh.
“You were always braver than me.”
Elena covered her mouth.
“I tried. Detective Rourke took the first documents. The next day Carlo Romano knew exactly what I gave him.”
My blood chilled.
“So Rourke belongs to them.”
Mateo continued.
“I copied everything again.”
Paper rustled.
“Bellini is dirty. Romano is worse.”
I felt something in my chest close.
“He’s selling Adrian’s routes while convincing Adrian Bellini is responsible for every loss.”
Elena looked at me.
“Bellini pays him. Rourke cleans police reports. Harbor East washes part of it.”
Then:
“Three years ago, Romano gave Bellini the route for Sofia Romano’s car.”
No one moved.
I stopped breathing.
Elena reached for my hand again.
This time I grabbed hers.
Harder than I intended.
She did not pull away.
Mateo continued.
“I don’t know who planted the bomb. I know Romano gave the route.”
The room blurred.
Carlo.
Uncle.
The man who carried Sofia’s coffin beside me.
I stood suddenly.
The chair fell backward.
Vincent stepped in front of me.
“Adrian.”
“Move.”
“No.”
I stared.
“Nobody tells me—”
“I am.”
His voice did not rise.
“You go after Carlo now, Mateo dies for nothing.”
“He’s already dead.”
“And Sofia?”
That stopped me.
Vincent pointed at the laptop.
“You kill Carlo tonight and Bellini burns records. Rourke disappears. Every cop they paid walks.”
My hands shook.
I hated it.
He was right.
Elena stood.
“Adrian.”
I turned away.
She came closer.
“Listen to him.”
“I listened for five years.”
“To the wrong man.”
That landed.
I looked at her.
She was crying.
Not for Sofia.
For me.
Somehow that hurt worse.
Mateo’s recording continued.
“There is one person inside Romano’s organization I think may be clean.”
Vincent and I looked at the laptop.
“Adrian.”
Silence.
Mateo laughed nervously.
“Funny, right?”
I almost did.
“The man everyone says is heartless may be the only one who didn’t know.”
Elena stared at me.
“His violence is real. I’m not pretending otherwise.”
Fair.
“But Carlo hides things from him. That means Carlo fears what Adrian would do if he knew.”
Mateo breathed.
“If I don’t make it, maybe Elena can bring this to him someday.”
My chest tightened.
“I hope she doesn’t have to.”
The recording ended.
Silence.
A dead man had chosen me as his final insurance policy.
He had never met me.
Probably feared me.
Still trusted my anger more than the law around him.
I hated what that said about my city.
I hated what it said about me.
Vincent spoke.
“Federal.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“We take it federal.”
“FBI?”
“Public corruption plus interstate laundering.”
Elena immediately said, “Yes.”
I stared.
“You trust them?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I trust duplication.”
That surprised me.
She continued.
“Mateo died because he gave one detective the only copy.”
She pointed at the flash drives.
“We make ten.”
Vincent smiled.
I did too.
“Good.”
Elena looked at me.
“Different attorneys. Different secure locations. Federal prosecutor. Inspector general. Maybe press if something happens.”
I studied her.
“You’ve thought about this.”
“For three years, I thought Mateo died in an accident.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I am done being the last person told.”
I understood that feeling.
We spent the next two days building copies.
Not sending them yet.
First, verification.
Vincent hired a forensic accountant unconnected to my organization.
Elena chose a lawyer.
Not mine.
Good.
Her name was Rachel Kim.
Sharp.
Suspicious.
She disliked me immediately.
I respected her.
Rachel reviewed Mateo’s files and said the most beautiful words in the English language.
“This is enough to make people very nervous.”
Not enough for every conviction.
Enough for subpoenas.
Enough for warrants.
Enough for pressure.
Then one more file surfaced.
A video.
Harbor East loading bay.
Poor quality.
Carlo entering.
Bellini entering fifteen minutes later.
Date matched Mateo’s recording.
They left together.
Visual confirmation.
That evening, Elena and I stood in Bianca’s kitchen.
Lily was coloring at the table.
Vincent had gone to make calls.
Elena poured coffee.
“You haven’t slept.”
“I sleep.”
“When?”
“Occasionally.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Neither is judging me while drinking my coffee.”
“This is terrible coffee.”
I looked offended.
“It came with the house.”
“Your sister had bad taste.”
I almost smiled.
Then guilt hit.
Bianca.
Sofia.
Mateo.
Dead people crowded the room.
Elena noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
I looked at her.
She leaned against the counter.
“You don’t have to be powerful every second.”
“I don’t know what else to be.”
The honesty surprised both of us.
Lily looked up from the table.
“Colorful.”
We turned.
“What?” Elena asked.
Lily pointed at me.
“He can be colorful.”
I laughed.
A real one.
Elena did too.
Lily returned to her picture.
Simple solution.
Three-year-old philosophy.
Powerful.
Colorful.
Maybe human.
Elena looked at me.
Her smile faded into something softer.
“Adrian.”
I stepped closer.
Not thinking.
Or thinking too much.
Her breath caught.
“I should not do this.”
“No.”
“You work for me.”
“Yes.”
“You’re under my protection.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“There’s that word.”
I almost laughed.
“I’m trying to be ethical.”
“Badly.”
“Very.”
We stood inches apart.
I could smell coffee and soap.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing calculated.
“Elena.”
She looked at my mouth.
Then back at my eyes.
“You are still my employer.”
“Yes.”
“So don’t kiss me.”
I stopped.
No.
I heard it.
That mattered.
I stepped back.
“Okay.”
Something in her expression changed.
Relief.
And disappointment.
Interesting.
Before either of us could examine it, Lily announced:
“I made us.”
She held up a drawing.
Three figures.
Elena.
Lily.
Me.
Buttons floated above us for reasons known only to the artist.
She had drawn a red heart over every person.
Except mine.
Mine had two.
Elena looked at me.
May you like
I looked away.
Because apparently the most dangerous object in Chicago was now purple construction paper.
