Chapter 10 - the ignition key
Dominic held the cold brass key up to the firelight.
The reflection danced across his dark eyes. For twelve years, the official police report had stated that the yacht explosion was caused by an accidental fuel vapor ignition in the engine bay. The case had been closed. His father had descended into grief and alcoholism, leaving Dominic to inherit a fractured mafia empire at twenty-two.
"Arthur didn't run because he was guilty," Dominic realized aloud, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Arthur ran because he kept the proof."
Carmine stepped forward, peering down at the key. "The yacht had an automated flight recorder installed in the auxiliary engine block. Only two keys could unlock the maintenance housing to pull the black box. One was held by the captain. The other was the master bypass Arthur carried."
Dominic turned the key over in his fingers. "Arthur kept the key to prove the fuel lines were cut. But where did he hide the box?"
Fay shook her head, her voice trembling slightly. "I don't know anything about a black box. My father told me this key was for a safe deposit box he closed years ago. He told me to wear it around my neck so I would never forget to keep moving."
Dominic looked up at her. The suspicion in his eyes was gone, replaced by a dark, simmering realization.
"Your father wasn't running from the police, Fay," Dominic said softly. "He was running from the person who ordered my mother killed. And that same person just tried to put a lethal dose of neurotoxin into my neck."
A soft chime sounded from the laptop on the library desk.
Dominic wheeled himself over to the screen. A notification flared: *Perimeter Gate South - Breach Cleared.*
Carmine’s radio crackled. *"Carmine, it’s security. We found Luca’s vehicle abandoned three miles down the coastal highway. Engine running. He switched cars."*
"Did he leave anything inside?" Carmine spoke into the radio.
*"A laptop bag. And a dossier with files taken from Mrs. Gable's administrative office."*
Dominic’s jaw tightened. "Mrs. Gable?"
Before Carmine could answer, the library door pushed open slowly.
Mrs. Gable stood in the hallway, holding a silver tray with hot black coffee and three clean mugs. Her posture was as erect and immaculate as ever, but her hands were trembling slightly against the tray’s handles.
"I thought you might need this, sir," she said softly.
Dominic didn't look at the coffee. His eyes fixed on the housekeeper’s face.
"Mrs. Gable," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "How long has Luca Bennett had access to your administrative security keycard?"
Mrs. Gable froze in the doorway. The silver tray rattled against her belt. Her pale skin drained of whatever color remained.
"I... I beg your pardon, Mr. Corso?"
"Luca used an administrative override to alter the security cameras the night my car was bombed six months ago," Dominic said, every word hitting like a hammer. "Those codes are held exclusively by you and Carmine. Carmine was with me at the downtown restaurant. You were the only one in this house with that key."
Mrs. Gable’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Carmine stepped toward her, his face turning dark as thunder. "Margaret. Answer him."
Mrs. Gable looked at Carmine, then at Dominic. A tear broke over her wrinkled cheek.
"He threatened my grandson, Dominic," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Luca showed me photographs of little Thomas leaving his elementary school in Boston. He told me that if I didn't give him the card for thirty minutes every Tuesday, Thomas wouldn't make it to his eighth birthday."
Dominic didn't rage. He sat back in his chair, his expression cold as winter stone.
"Who did Luca answer to, Margaret? Give me a name."
Mrs. Gable swallowed hard, clutching the tray against her chest like a shield.
"He never said a name," she cried softly. "He only referred to him as... *The Collector.* But three days ago, I heard him taking a call in the pantry. He said the shipment from the docks was ready, and that Sal Moretti would deliver the final payment to the south warehouse tomorrow night."
Dominic’s hands gripped his armrests.
May you like
"Tomorrow night," Dominic whispered.
Then, Dominic Corso leaned forward. With a grunt of pure willpower, his right hand gripped the desk, his left hand braced against the armrest—and he stood up.
