Chapter 2 - THE MAN NICOLAS TRUSTED
Nicolas did not reach for a weapon.
That frightened Rachel more than if he had.
He simply moved between her and the man in the doorway.
“Victor.”
The name came out quietly.
Victor Salerno was in his late fifties, broad-shouldered despite his age, with iron-gray hair and the composed expression of a man accustomed to entering rooms where everyone else stood when he arrived.
Rachel had seen him before.
Not personally.
His photograph hung in Nicolas’s office downstairs beside pictures from charity dinners, construction openings, and family celebrations.
Victor had been Nicolas’s father’s closest adviser.
Then Nicolas’s.
For eighteen years.
Victor looked past him.
“Rachel, I asked your father to destroy that truck.”
Camille whispered, “You threatened him.”
Victor’s eyes shifted toward her.
“I protected you.”
“You used me.”
“Sometimes those are the same thing.”
Nicolas’s voice hardened.
“No. They aren't.”
The phone was still in Rachel’s hand.
The call had disconnected.
She stared at the screen, thinking about the terrified man whose door had been splintering.
“What did you do to the caller?”
“Nothing.”
Rachel laughed once, without humor.
“He said someone was outside his door.”
“Yes.”
“You.”
“No.”
Victor reached slowly inside his coat.
Nicolas stepped forward.
“Careful.”
Victor removed a folded photograph.
He placed it on the nearest table.
“Look.”
Rachel didn't move.
Camille did.
Then her face changed.
“Nicolas.”
He picked up the photograph.
It showed the warehouse from the flash-drive recording.
Thomas Keene stood near the side entrance.
Beside him was a man wearing a dark raincoat.
The photograph had been taken from behind, but the man’s right hand was visible.
A gold signet ring.
Victor raised his own ring.
“Mine.”
Nicolas stared at him.
Victor turned his hand over.
Inside the band were two engraved letters.
A.S.
“My father’s initials,” Victor said. “Antonio Salerno.”
Camille shook her head.
“We saw your ring in the video.”
“You saw a ring.”
Victor looked at Nicolas.
“There were twelve of them.”
Silence.
“My father had twelve made in 1987 for the men who invested in Pier 19.”
Nicolas’s face tightened.
“My father never told me that.”
“Your father didn't tell you many things.”
That landed.
Victor reached for the photograph again.
“Someone wanted you to recognize the ring.”
Rachel understood first.
“The person in the video wanted Nicolas to think it was you.”
Victor nodded.
“And judging from Camille’s expression, it worked.”
Camille looked furious.
“You ordered me to keep Nicolas away from the report.”
“No. Keene did.”
“You were at the warehouse.”
“I arrived after you left.”
Rachel watched both of them.
One was lying.
Maybe both.
She looked at the wet coat.
“Where were you twenty minutes ago?”
Victor met her eyes.
“Trying to stop the demolition.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Convenient.”
Something almost like approval crossed his face.
“Your father had the same habit.”
“What habit?”
“Not being impressed by me.”
Rachel hated that the comment made her chest ache.
She had spent four years missing her father in ordinary moments.
A broken kitchen drawer.
A baseball game on television.
The smell of motor oil.
Now strangers were describing a version of him she had never known.
“What did he do at Pier 19?”
Victor glanced at Nicolas.
“Ask the truck.”
Rachel grabbed her coat.
“I'm going there.”
“No,” Nicolas and Victor said together.
Rachel looked at both men.
“That truck belongs to me.”
Victor’s calm finally cracked.
“And people have spent twenty-eight years looking for what’s inside it.”
“All the more reason.”
“You have a daughter.”
Rachel stepped toward him.
“Do not use Sophie to scare me.”
“I’m not trying to scare you.”
“Then you're failing.”
Nicolas turned to Victor.
“Who else knows where the truck is?”
“I don't.”
Camille spoke.
“But somebody might.”
Everyone looked at her.
She swallowed.
“When Keene gave me the envelope this morning, he asked whether Rachel had family.”
Rachel felt her stomach twist.
“You told him about Sophie?”
“No.”
Camille’s answer was immediate.
“I swear.”
Rachel stared at the woman who had planted a bracelet in her purse only hours earlier.
Trust was impossible.
But fear looked different from deception.
Camille was afraid.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I didn't know anything about you.”
“Then how did someone find Sophie’s sleepover?”
“I don't know.”
Nicolas took out his phone.
“Paul can put security at the house.”
Rachel caught his wrist.
“No DeSantis people near Sophie.”
His eyes met hers.
She expected anger.
Instead, he nodded.
“Then choose someone you trust.”
Rachel called Sophie’s host.
No answer.
She called again.
Still nothing.
Her heart began pounding.
On the third attempt, the woman answered.
“Rachel?”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“Is Sophie okay?”
“Yes. She's asleep on the couch. Sorry. My phone was charging upstairs.”
Rachel nearly cried from relief.
“Lock the doors. Don't open them for anyone.”
“Rachel, what's happening?”
“I'll explain later.”
After hanging up, Rachel looked at Nicolas.
“The truck.”
He nodded.
Victor stepped into their path.
“You cannot open it at the garage.”
“Why?” Nicolas asked.
“Because Bennett built the compartment to show tampering.”
Rachel frowned.
“How do you know?”
Victor’s answer came softly.
“Because I helped him build it.”
That changed the room.
“You knew my father?”
“For twenty-nine years.”
Rachel walked straight up to him.
“Then why did he never mention you?”
Victor looked genuinely sad.
“Because after Pier 19, he hated me.”
“Why?”
“Because I made the choice that kept him alive.”
Before Rachel could demand more, Nicolas spoke.
“We move the truck somewhere secure.”
Victor shook his head.
“Your secure locations are compromised.”
Nicolas went still.
“You're very confident about that.”
“Someone used your authorization code to activate demolition.”
Only three people had it.
Nicolas.
His security chief.
And Victor.
Camille stared at him.
Victor continued.
“My code wasn't used.”
Nicolas checked his phone.
A minute later, his expression changed.
“Neither was mine.”
Rachel understood.
“Your security chief.”
“Daniel Russo.”
The name meant nothing to Rachel.
It meant something to Camille.
She sat down.
“No.”
Nicolas was already calling.
No answer.
Victor said, “Now you understand why I came personally.”
Rachel looked between them.
“Where is Russo?”
Nobody knew.
They drove to Cranston in two cars.
Rachel refused to leave the truck key with anyone.
The rented garage sat behind an old auto-body shop.
At 2:06 a.m., she pulled the tarp away.
Her father’s faded green delivery truck waited beneath it.
Rust along the wheel wells.
Cracked vinyl seat.
A Saint Christopher medal hanging from the mirror.
Rachel touched it.
Her father had rubbed that medal before every long drive.
Nicolas stood back, letting her have the moment.
Victor pointed toward the truck bed.
“Bennett welded the compartment beneath the floor.”
Rachel climbed inside.
She remembered sitting there as a child while her father unloaded boxes.
She remembered a rule.
Never touch the red latch.
She dropped to her knees.
The latch was still there.
Faded.
Almost brown.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled it.
A section of flooring lifted.
Inside lay an old canvas coat.
A metal cashbox.
A child’s drawing.
And a silver pocket watch.
Rachel picked up the drawing first.
Three stick figures stood beside the green truck.
One was labeled DADDY.
One RACHEL.
The third name made no sense.
NICKY.
Nicolas saw it.
His face drained of color.
Rachel slowly turned the paper over.
Her father had written a date.
June 14, 1998.
And one sentence.
If anything happens to me, give the watch to Nicky DeSantis. He deserves to know who saved his life.
Rachel looked at Nicolas.
“You knew my father?”
Nicolas stared at the silver watch.
Then whispered:
“No.”
May you like
Victor closed his eyes.
And Rachel understood from his expression that he did.
