Rose pointed toward Dominic’s neck, then toward the desk. “The little silver key. The lady took it out of the picture frame in your big office before she went to the piano. She put it in her shoe.”
Dominic’s jaw clenched so tightly the muscles knotted beneath his stubble.
He stood up, his voice dangerously low. “The vault key.”
“What vault?” I asked, terror spiking again.
Dominic wasted no time. Continental Vaults was an antiquated, high-security private depository founded in the late nineteenth century, catering to Chicago’s oldest dynasties. It operated independently of modern digital banking systems—client privacy was maintained through physical signature cards, dual-custody mechanical locks, and biometric verification.
“If Serena has that key,” Dominic muttered as he paced the study, “Marco will attempt to access the vault before the end of business tomorrow. He knows once Friday comes, federal eyes will scrutinize every asset connected to the Vitali name.”
“Can’t you call the vault and freeze it?” I asked.
“The protocol my father established was absolute,” Dominic replied, strapping an ankle holster into place. “The box can only be accessed by the key holder accompanied by the primary biometric scan, or through a posthumous execution clause signed twenty years ago. If Marco presents the key alongside the legal power of attorney he fraudulently retained from my father’s estate, corrupt elements within the board could release the box to him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going downtown,” he said, pulling on a dark overcoat. “I’m taking that box before Marco touches it.”
“Dominic, wait,” I said, reaching out instinctively and catching his sleeve. The moment my fingers touched the heavy fabric, heat flared between us, catching me completely off guard. I lowered my hand, flustered. “It could be an ambush. What if they knew Rose would tell you?”
Dominic’s eyes softened as he looked down at me. “They don’t know. Serena still thinks I’m en route to Manhattan. She thinks she has until Friday. We have the element of surprise for roughly eighteen more hours. I have to move now.”
He turned to his lead security officer. “Lock down the perimeter. If so much as a stray dog approaches this property, put the estate into full blackout.”
An hour later, Dominic stood inside the cavernous marble subterranean chambers of Continental Vaults.
The aged vault master, an octogenarian named Arthur Pendelton who had served the Vitali family for forty years, adjusted his spectacles as he examined Dominic’s identification and scanned his palm print against the antique bronze plate.
“Your father always said you would come for this box only when the storm had broken, Dominic,” Pendelton whispered, leading him down a long corridor lined with polished steel lockers.
“The storm broke twenty years ago, Arthur,” Dominic replied grimly. “I’m just now clearing the clouds.”
They stopped in front of Box 414. Arthur inserted the master key; Dominic produced the duplicate emergency bypass key he had kept in his personal safe for a decade—a companion to the silver key Serena had stolen.
With a heavy mechanical thunk, the steel door swung open.
Dominic pulled out a long, heavy metal container and carried it to a private viewing booth. His hands, usually steady under any crisis, trembled slightly as he lifted the latch.
Inside lay two items: an old reel-to-reel microcassette tape, and a leather-bound journal written in his father’s bold, angular handwriting.
Dominic inserted the microcassette into a vintage portable player resting on the table and pressed play.
A burst of static hissed through the small speaker, followed by the familiar, commanding voice of Anthony Vitali, recorded on November 14, twenty years earlier:
*“If you are listening to this, Dominic, then Marco has made his move, and I am no longer there to shield you. For months, I have uncovered his embezzlement of our shipping lines to finance illicit shipments through the South Side. When I confronted him yesterday, he threatened this family. He thinks I am blind to his ambition. I am leaving this ledger as evidence of every transaction, every bribed official, and every contract Marco has forged. Do not trust him, my son. He smiles while holding the blade.”*
The tape ended with the muffled sound of a door opening, followed by Anthony’s voice: *“Marco? What are you doing with that—”*
A deafening crack shattered the audio. The sound of a body hitting a hardwood floor.
Then, Marco Bellini’s voice, cold and devoid of remorse, echoed through the tape: *“You should have retired when I offered you the chance, Anthony.”*
A clicking sound followed as the tape recorder was shoved beneath the desk where it had been hidden, running until the tape ran out of spool.
Dominic sat in the silent, fluorescent-lit booth, his breathing shallow, his knuckles white against the metal table.
