Chapter 4 - What Anthony Castellano Hid
Vincent did not speak during the drive back to Brooklyn.
That frightened Amelia more than anger would have.
He sat beside her in the rear seat while Manhattan blurred beyond tinted glass. Marco drove.
Amelia kept trying to reconstruct the night.
She remembered blood on her lip.
Raymond yelling from the apartment.
A taxi refusing to stop because she had no coat.
Anthony Castellano outside a dark restaurant.
His expression when he noticed the bruise.
“You need a hospital?”
“No.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Someone safe?”
“I don’t have anyone.”
Then his card.
If you change your mind.
She had walked three blocks.
Stopped.
Turned around.
After that everything became fragments.
Vincent finally spoke.
“My father carried a black leather notebook.”
Amelia looked at him.
“What?”
“Every day. Appointments, telephone numbers, stupid reminders. He hated phones.”
“Okay.”
“Police never found it after his death.”
Amelia understood.
“You think he wrote down meeting me.”
“Maybe.”
“What happened to him?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“He left the restaurant at eleven seventeen. At eleven forty-three, a delivery driver found him beside Atlantic Avenue.”
“Car accident?”
“According to police.”
“And according to you?”
“The car accelerated before impact.”
Amelia swallowed.
“How do you know?”
“Security camera two blocks away.”
“Did it show the driver?”
“No.”
“Plate?”
“Stolen.”
He looked out the window.
“My father survived long enough to reach the hospital.”
“Did he say anything?”
“One sentence.”
Amelia waited.
Vincent looked at her.
“He told me, ‘Find the girl before Sal does.’”
Her blood turned cold.
“Sal.”
“Salvatore.”
“You thought he meant someone else?”
“I thought he was delirious.”
Vincent laughed once, without humor.
“My uncle stood beside me at his funeral.”
Amelia stared.
“If your father had my drive…”
“Then Raymond may have killed him to get it.”
“Or Salvatore.”
“Or both.”
The car became silent again.
At Castellano’s, plywood covered part of the front window.
Someone had thrown a brick through it during the night.
Angela stood behind the counter shouting at a contractor.
When Amelia entered, Angela dropped everything.
“You are not supposed to be here.”
“I work here.”
“You have a concussion.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Angela’s face changed.
Amelia immediately regretted the words.
Vincent noticed.
Again, he did not ask.
Tony emerged from the kitchen.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You want eggs?”
“Yes.”
Normal.
The offer nearly made her cry.
Vincent moved toward the back office.
“Amelia.”
She followed.
Marco closed the door behind them.
The office had belonged to Anthony once.
Vincent rarely used it.
A faded photograph sat behind the desk.
Anthony Castellano with two teenage boys.
One was clearly Vincent.
The other looked younger.
“Your brother?” Amelia asked.
“Gabriel.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
She stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
Vincent did not elaborate.
Too many dead Castellanos.
He opened a cabinet beneath the desk.
Empty.
Then another.
“After my father died, Salvatore cleared this office.”
“Why?”
“He said my mother couldn’t handle it.”
“Could she?”
“No.”
“Convenient.”
Vincent looked at Amelia.
“You’re learning.”
She folded her arms.
“From experts.”
He almost smiled.
Marco entered carrying a cardboard archive box.
“Found this upstairs.”
Inside were old receipts, calendars, menus, tax forms.
Amelia sat on the floor.
For two hours they searched.
At last she found a reservation book from three years earlier.
November seventeenth.
Anthony’s handwriting filled most of the page.
7:00 suppliers.
8:30 Tony’s freezer repair.
10:45 A.H.
Amelia touched the initials.
“That’s me.”
Vincent crouched beside her.
“How do you know?”
“I gave him a fake last name.”
“What?”
“Harris.”
Amelia Harris.
A.H.
She closed her eyes.
Memory returned.
Anthony letting her into the restaurant.
Making coffee she never drank.
Listening while she explained she had files that could ruin Raymond.
She had not known what was on them.
Only that Raymond had panicked when he caught her copying his laptop.
Anthony had asked one question.
“Does Raymond know you have this?”
“Yes.”
Then Anthony took the drive.
“He told me he would keep it overnight,” Amelia whispered.
Vincent’s eyes fixed on her.
“He said if something happened to him…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“I was terrified.”
“I know.”
“He said something about a saint.”
Marco looked up.
“A saint?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent stood.
His eyes had gone distant.
“My mother.”
“What about her?”
“She collected saint medals.”
He crossed the diner.
Angela watched him disappear toward the kitchen.
Amelia followed.
Behind the pantry stood a framed photograph of Sofia Castellano, Vincent’s late mother, wearing a gold chain with several religious medals.
Vincent lifted the frame.
Nothing.
Then he stared at the wall.
“Saint Anthony.”
Amelia’s breath caught.
The patron saint of lost things.
Vincent reached behind the frame.
His fingers found a small brass key taped against the backing.
Marco let out a low whistle.
They returned to the office.
The key did not fit the desk.
Not the cabinets.
Not the safe.
Angela stepped inside.
“What are you idiots doing?”
Vincent held up the key.
“Do you recognize this?”
Angela squinted.
“Yeah.”
Everyone turned.
“It’s the basement wine cage.”
Vincent looked genuinely annoyed.
“You knew?”
“I’ve worked here thirty-two years. Of course I know.”
They descended into the basement.
The wine cage held dusty bottles and restaurant supplies.
Vincent unlocked it.
Amelia entered.
Nothing obvious.
Then she saw a wooden statue of Saint Anthony on a shelf.
Her heart started pounding.
“Vincent.”
He followed her gaze.
The statue was hollow underneath.
Inside was a sealed envelope.
Vincent’s name written across the front.
His hands trembled for the first time Amelia had seen.
He opened it.
A letter.
A flash drive.
And a photograph.
The photograph showed Raymond Fletcher standing beside Salvatore Castellano.
Taken secretly.
On the back Anthony had written:
If you are reading this, I was right to be afraid.
Vincent unfolded the letter.
Son,
A frightened young woman came to me tonight carrying proof that Salvatore has been stealing from us for years. Raymond Fletcher handles the money. There are payments tied to judges, police, union officers, and at least one murder.
I told Amelia I would protect her.
If anything happens to me, do not let Sal convince you the girl caused it.
She is a witness.
Not the enemy.
Vincent stopped reading.
Amelia covered her mouth.
Anthony had known her real name.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent kept reading.
The final paragraph was shorter.
Most importantly, do not become the kind of man who thinks protecting someone means owning them. Your grandfather made that mistake. I made it too often. If Amelia chooses to walk away, let her.
Vincent read the sentence twice.
Then handed the letter to Amelia.
Her eyes filled.
A man she had known for perhaps forty minutes had understood exactly what she had spent years trying to explain.
Protection was not control.
Vincent took the flash drive.
“Can you open it?”
“I encrypted the original files.”
“Password?”
Amelia nodded.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
She hesitated.
“My mother’s birthday.”
Vincent extended the drive toward her.
He did not plug it into a computer himself.
Amelia looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“You’re giving it to me?”
“It’s yours.”
“That evidence could prove who killed your father.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve searched three years for this.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re giving it back?”
Vincent’s expression softened.
“My father left instructions.”
For the first time since Derek hit her, Amelia felt something inside her loosen.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But perhaps the beginning.
Upstairs, the diner telephone rang.
Angela answered.
Seconds later she shouted Vincent’s name.
They hurried up.
Angela held the receiver away from her ear.
Her face had gone pale.
“It’s Salvatore.”
Vincent took the phone.
“Uncle.”
Amelia could not hear the other side.
Vincent’s expression gave away nothing.
Then Salvatore said something that changed it.
Vincent looked directly at Amelia.
“What did he say?” she whispered after he hung up.
Vincent placed the receiver down.
“He said we have until midnight to return what my father stole.”
Amelia’s heart stopped.
“And if we don’t?”
May you like
Vincent looked toward the photograph of Anthony Castellano on the wall.
“He says he’ll finish what Raymond started three years ago.”
