Chapter 6 - THE SIGNATURE THAT DESTROYED THE EVIDENCE
"That's my name."
Vincent's voice was barely audible.
I moved closer.
"Vincent?"
He held the payment record against the kitchen counter.
At the bottom, beneath the words Disposal Authorized, someone had written:
Vincent Marino.
Sofia began shaking her head.
"No. Dominic told me he handled everything."
Vincent stared at her.
"Did you ever ask me?"
She didn't answer.
June took the paper and adjusted her reading glasses.
"This isn't your signature, Mr. Marino. It's a record saying the order was issued in your name."
"Then we need to find the actual authorization," Vincent said.
He turned toward the window.
For the first time since meeting him, I could see how deeply his uncle's influence had shaped his life.
At thirty-eight, Vincent Marino could intimidate powerful businessmen with a glance.
But part of him was still the twenty-three-year-old who had buried his father.
And trusted the man who helped him survive afterward.
"I signed something," he said suddenly.
Sofia looked up.
"What?"
"Two days after Dad's funeral. Dominic brought me a stack of papers concerning the damaged Lincoln."
I felt my chest tighten.
"Do you remember what they said?"
"Something about releasing the wreckage from storage."
June lowered herself into a chair.
Vincent continued.
"I thought he was keeping reporters away. They'd already photographed the funeral. I didn't want pictures of Dad's car printed everywhere."
His voice broke slightly.
"God, I was barely sleeping."
I stepped closer.
"You didn't know what you were signing."
He looked at me.
"That doesn't change the fact that I signed."
"No," I said quietly. "But it changes why."
He studied my face.
For a second, he looked like he wanted to reach for me.
Then he turned away.
That afternoon, we visited the Marino company's original records office near the waterfront.
Vincent opened the doors himself.
Rows of filing cabinets stood behind glass partitions.
His longtime operations manager, a gray-haired man named Frank Rossi, met us in the hallway.
Frank had worked for the family for nearly forty years.
When Vincent explained what we needed, Frank looked deeply uncomfortable.
"Your uncle already asked about those records."
"When?" Vincent demanded.
"Yesterday evening."
I looked at Vincent.
The same evening as the gala.
Dominic had realized we were asking questions.
"What did he take?" Vincent asked.
"Some old correspondence."
"And the disposal authorization?"
Frank shook his head.
"That stays with the original insurance files."
He led us into a storage room.
After twenty minutes, he found a thick gray folder.
Vincent opened it.
There was the document.
A release order for the damaged Lincoln.
Dated two days after the funeral.
Signed by Vincent Marino.
I watched him stare at the signature.
His shoulders sagged.
"I remember the pen," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"Dominic gave me a silver fountain pen that morning. Said Dad would have wanted me to start handling things myself."
He closed his eyes.
"I thought he was helping me become a man."
I touched his arm.
"You were grieving."
Vincent looked at me.
"Does grief excuse carelessness?"
"No. But it deserves compassion."
He didn't answer.
Frank cleared his throat.
"There's a second record."
He removed a folded equipment report.
"The damaged Lincoln was removed by Baird Fleet Services. But the company also serviced a green flatbed truck that same night."
My heart quickened.
"What happened to the truck?"
Frank pointed at the report.
"Replacement front bumper. Damaged grille. Headlight assembly."
Vincent's expression changed.
"On October fifteenth?"
Frank nodded.
"Early that morning."
I stared at the page.
A towing vehicle had been requested before the collision.
Then a company truck needed major repairs.
And Vincent had signed away the wreckage that might have proven what happened.
"Where's the truck now?" I asked.
Frank hesitated.
"According to the records, sold six years later."
"To whom?"
"An equipment dealer in Indiana."
Vincent folded the report.
"We'll need the complete repair history."
Frank nodded.
Then he looked toward the office doorway.
"Mr. Marino, there's another problem."
"What?"
"Your uncle has instructed the board to accelerate Monday's vote."
Vincent frowned.
"He can't do that alone."
"He says both families have agreed."
I felt a chill.
Frank continued.
"The Pier Nine property will be transferred into a new holding company if the founders' representatives approve the resolution."
"Who controls that company?" Vincent asked.
Frank hesitated.
"Your uncle."
Vincent laughed bitterly.
"So that's why he wanted the engagement."
I looked at him.
"He was using our mothers to make the families appear united."
"And to pressure us into approving the transfer."
Then Frank placed one more page on the desk.
A copy of the proposed public announcement.
Beneath our names was a sentence I hadn't authorized.
Evelyn Hartwell and Vincent Marino jointly endorse the transfer of their fathers' legacy assets.
I stared at it.
"He's putting words in our mouths."
Vincent reached for the page.
But Frank wasn't finished.
"Miss Hartwell, your architecture firm is named in the redevelopment restrictions."
My stomach dropped.
"What restrictions?"
Frank turned the page.
The final paragraph was highlighted.
Any competing redevelopment proposal, including one submitted by Hartwell Design, would be permanently disqualified from Pier Nine.
Dominic wasn't merely trying to silence our questions.
May you like
He was preparing to erase everything our fathers had wanted to build.
And this time, he was using my career to do it.
