Chapter 3 - The Apartment Julian Left Behind
Dominic did not respond immediately.
Vincent waited on the line.
“Should I send security upstairs?” he asked.
“No.”
“Dominic—”
“I said no.”
He hung up.
Hannah stared at him.
“He knows.”
“He knows someone accessed Julian’s files.”
“That means he knows it’s us.”
“Not necessarily.”
Dominic took Grace from Hannah.
“Go downstairs.”
“What?”
“Use the service elevator. Leave through the kitchen loading entrance.”
“I’m not leaving Grace.”
“You’re both leaving.”
“With whom?”
“Me.”
Hannah blinked.
Dominic Caruso had not personally used a service exit in fourteen years.
Ten minutes later, wearing a dark overcoat over his suit and carrying his niece beneath one arm, he slipped through the basement of his own building.
Hannah walked beside him.
Nobody stopped them.
A black sedan waited half a block away.
The driver was one of Dominic’s private operatives.
“Where?” Hannah asked.
“Your apartment.”
“You said people were inside.”
“They left.”
“And Rebecca took Julian’s notebook.”
“Which means whatever she wanted most is no longer there.”
Dominic looked at her.
“But that doesn’t mean Julian left only one secret.”
Hannah lived in a sixth-floor walk-up in Queens.
The apartment was smaller than Dominic’s bedroom.
The front door had been forced open.
Drawers lay emptied across the floor.
Grace’s clothes had been scattered.
Her crib mattress had been cut open.
Dominic stood motionless.
Something in him hardened.
This was no longer merely about corporate betrayal.
Someone had searched a baby’s crib.
Hannah walked into the bedroom and stopped.
“They took everything apart.”
Dominic saw tears forming.
“Don’t touch anything.”
“They went through her things.”
“I know.”
“They know she exists.”
“We don’t know that.”
“They cut open her mattress.”
Dominic looked toward his operative.
“Photograph everything.”
Then he carried Grace through the apartment.
The child seemed fascinated by the destruction.
Dominic was not.
He saw method.
Kitchen cabinets opened.
Vent covers removed.
Baseboards pulled.
These people had not been searching randomly.
They knew Julian had hidden something.
Dominic entered Hannah’s bedroom.
A framed photograph lay shattered.
He picked it up.
Julian and Hannah.
His brother wore jeans and a Mets cap.
Hannah was laughing.
Julian looked happier than Dominic remembered seeing him in years.
“You never saw this version of him, did you?” Hannah asked behind him.
Dominic did not answer.
He placed the photograph carefully on the dresser.
Then Grace began making impatient noises.
“What does she want?”
“Probably food.”
Dominic looked alarmed.
Hannah almost laughed.
“There are bottles in the refrigerator.”
The refrigerator was empty.
Whoever searched the apartment had thrown everything out.
Hannah closed her eyes.
“I have formula in the diaper bag.”
Grace started fussing.
Dominic looked genuinely concerned.
“Is that crying?”
“She’s hungry.”
“What do we do?”
Hannah stared at him.
“We feed her.”
“I assumed that much.”
For three strange minutes, the most feared businessman in the city stood in a destroyed apartment while Hannah explained how to mix formula.
Grace drank in Dominic’s arms.
Halfway through the bottle, her eyes drifted closed.
Dominic watched her.
“She trusts you,” Hannah said.
“She’s nine months old. Her judgment is questionable.”
“She doesn’t do that with strangers.”
Dominic looked at the baby.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Grace’s small hand opened against his chest.
Something inside Dominic shifted.
He had spent years believing family meant obligation.
Maybe Julian had discovered another definition.
Dominic placed Grace into Hannah’s arms and resumed searching.
He found nothing in the bedroom.
Nothing in the bathroom.
Nothing in the kitchen.
Then he noticed the old radiator beside Grace’s crib.
Fresh scratches marked one screw.
Dominic crouched.
“What?”
He removed the cover.
Inside was a tiny waterproof envelope.
Hannah gasped.
“I’ve never seen that.”
Dominic opened it.
A brass key.
And a handwritten note.
The handwriting belonged to Julian.
Dom—
If Hannah ever finds this, it means I failed.
Don’t trust the manifests.
Don’t trust Lazarus.
Find Locker 317.
And before you believe anyone, ask who signed the St. Agnes transfer.
J.
Dominic read it twice.
Hannah whispered, “He wrote that to you.”
“Yes.”
“He expected you to find it.”
“Eventually.”
“What’s St. Agnes?”
“I don’t know.”
The brass key bore the logo of Grand Central Terminal storage services.
Locker 317.
Dominic looked at his operative.
“Call Samuel. Find every record containing St. Agnes.”
The answer arrived before they reached Manhattan.
St. Agnes was not a shipping vessel.
Not a company.
Not a warehouse.
It was a hospital.
St. Agnes Medical Center in New Jersey had closed six years earlier.
“What transfer?” Hannah asked.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
Dominic entered Grand Central through a private access point.
Hannah remained in the car with Grace and two guards.
Locker 317 sat at the far end of a rarely used storage corridor.
Dominic inserted the brass key.
Inside sat a plain cardboard box.
No money.
No weapons.
Documents.
A flash drive.
Three photographs.
And one sealed envelope labeled:
FOR DOMINIC ONLY.
Dominic opened it.
His brother’s handwriting covered four pages.
Dom,
If you are reading this, there is a good chance I am dead.
Dominic stopped.
He forced himself to continue.
I need you to understand something first. I did not betray you. I did not steal from the company. I did not build Lazarus.
I found it.
Project Lazarus began before Dad died.
Someone has been using deceased employees, contractors, dockworkers, and associates as active identities. Their credentials are used to approve cargo, create companies, sign transfers, and move money.
Dead men cannot testify.
Dead men cannot be questioned.
Dead men make perfect employees.
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
Julian continued.
But that is not the worst part.
The system is connected to something called the St. Agnes transfer.
I think the hospital records were used to fabricate deaths.
Some people listed as dead may still be alive.
Dominic read the line again.
People listed as dead may still be alive.
His hands became cold.
At the bottom of the second page Julian had written:
If I die in a fire, do not trust the body.
Dominic stopped breathing.
The official report said Julian’s body had been recovered burned beyond recognition.
Identification had been based on dental records.
Dominic turned to the photographs.
The first showed Vincent meeting two unfamiliar men near the docks.
The second showed Marco Caruso standing beside a container marked with a medical relief logo.
The third—
Dominic nearly dropped it.
Julian.
The date printed at the bottom was six weeks after his supposed death.
The photograph showed a man being pushed through the rear entrance of a private medical facility.
His face was bruised.
His hair was shorter.
But Dominic knew his brother.
The eyes.
The posture.
The scar near his temple.
Julian had been alive.
Six weeks after Dominic buried him.
A sound came from the corridor.
Footsteps.
Dominic turned.
Three men appeared.
Not his men.
One raised a pistol.
Dominic ducked behind the locker bank as the first shot cracked through the corridor.
He drew the weapon beneath his coat.
“Mr. Caruso,” a voice called.
Dominic recognized it.
Marco.
His cousin stepped into view.
“This doesn’t have to become ugly.”
Dominic remained behind cover.
“You shot at me.”
“That was a warning.”
“You’ve always been terrible at diplomacy.”
Marco sighed.
“Give me the box.”
“Come take it.”
“Dominic, you have no idea what Julian was involved in.”
“Interesting choice of tense.”
Silence.
Dominic heard Marco breathe.
“You found the photograph.”
“Yes.”
“Then you understand.”
“No.”
Marco stepped closer.
“Julian wasn’t killed in that crash.”
Dominic tightened his grip.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Who took him?”
Marco hesitated.
“Vincent.”
Dominic felt something cold settle inside him.
“You’re blaming him.”
“I’m telling you what happened.”
“Why?”
“Because Vincent discovered Julian’s investigation.”
“And you?”
Marco laughed bitterly.
“I helped Julian.”
Dominic looked at the photograph of Marco beside the container.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“That container wasn’t evidence against me. I was inspecting it for him.”
“Come into the light.”
“Put your gun down.”
“You first.”
Neither moved.
Finally Marco said, “Did you read the whole letter?”
Dominic looked down.
There were still two pages.
“Read page four.”
Dominic kept his gun trained toward the corridor while unfolding the final page.
One sentence had been underlined twice.
Marco helped me. If he is still alive, hear him out before you decide whether to kill him.
Dominic exhaled.
Marco slowly stepped forward with empty hands.
His men lowered their weapons.
“Where is Julian?” Dominic asked.
Marco’s expression changed.
“I spent eighteen months trying to find him.”
“You said Vincent took him.”
“Yes.”
“Why keep him alive?”
“Because Julian hid something.”
“What?”
Marco pointed at the flash drive.
“The master ledger.”
Dominic looked at it.
“That?”
“No.”
Marco shook his head.
“That drive tells you what Lazarus did.”
“Then what is the master ledger?”
“The document that tells you who benefited.”
Dominic’s phone buzzed.
Hannah.
He answered immediately.
Her voice was terrified.
“Dominic.”
“What happened?”
“The guards are gone.”
His heart stopped.
“What do you mean?”
“They stepped outside when another car pulled up. I heard shouting. Then nothing.”
“Lock the doors.”
“I already did.”
“Where’s Grace?”
“With me.”
A crash sounded through the phone.
Glass breaking.
Hannah screamed.
Dominic ran.
“Hannah!”
The call stayed connected for six more seconds.
He heard men shouting.
Grace crying.
Then Hannah’s voice:
“No! Please, don’t take her!”
The line went dead.
Dominic reached the street.
The black sedan was still there.
Rear window shattered.
Blood on the pavement.
No Hannah.
No Grace.
Only the Saint Christopher medal lying beside the curb.
And beneath it, a note.
Dominic picked it up.
May you like
Six words.
BRING THE LEDGER IF YOU WANT THEM BACK.
