Chapter 4 - The Ledger’s Secret
The ink on the yellowed page was faded, but the handwriting was unmistakable—the neat, cramped cursive of a man who spent forty years keeping track of every bolt, beam, and shipping container that passed through the Delaware riverfront.
Arthur Ellery. Their father.
Mara’s breath hitched. She looked up from the desk, her eyes wide as she stared at her brother.
This doesn't make sense, she whispered, the words catching in her throat. Dad was a union steward. He was an honest man. He worked himself into an early grave for these docks. He wouldn't steal. He wouldn't touch a dime that didn't belong to him.
Thomas let out a heavy, defeated sigh, slumping back down into his office chair. He pulled a pack of crumpled cigarettes from his pocket, stared at it for a second, and tossed it back onto the desk without lighting one.
That’s what I thought, too, Thomas said quietly, his eyes fixed on the rain hammering against the glass roof above them. For twenty years, Dad was Vincent Castellano’s most trusted man. When the old man needed something done right—something quiet, something that couldn't go through official channels—he went to Dad.
What kind of things? Mara asked, a cold dread pooling in her stomach.
Thomas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Not stealing, Mara. Not for greed. Protection money, union payoffs, turning a blind eye when certain containers came off the ships without paperwork. Dad wasn't a thief; he was the vault. He kept the records of every dirty deal the Castellano family made to build this empire."
And when he died? Mara asked, the pieces of a puzzle she never wanted to solve finally clicking into place.
When Dad’s heart gave out, Vincent Castellano expected those records to be handed over, Thomas said. But Dad knew what those files were worth. He knew that if the feds—or rival families—ever got their hands on that ledger, the entire Castellano operation would crumble overnight. So he hid it. And when I came looking for answers after the funeral, I found it locked in his old locker here.
Mara stared at her brother, the ground shifting beneath her feet. So you didn't run away to gamble. You didn't skip town. You stayed here to protect the ledger?
I stayed here because Vincent Castellano’s men have been watching our apartment for four years, Thomas said grimly. They thought Dad gave the ledger to me. They’ve been squeezing me, forcing me to alter the current manifests so they could use this warehouse as a laundering front for their own contraband, all while trying to figure out where Dad hid the original documents.
If they find out you don't have it—or if they find out where it is—Mara started, her voice trailing off as the terrifying reality washed over her.
They’ll kill us both, Thomas finished for her. And they won't make it quick.
Silence descended on the small glass office, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the ventilation fan and the drumming of the rain outside. Mara’s mind raced. Dante. Dante had brought her to the warehouse. Dante had told her Thomas was the thief.
Did Dante send you? Thomas suddenly asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her coat. Did you talk to him?
He’s the one who gave me your name, Mara admitted, her voice barely a whisper. He’s the one who sent me down here to find the person stealing from the docks.
Thomas stared at her in horror. You told Dante Castellano where I was? Mara, are you out of your mind? He’s Vincent’s son! He’s cut from the exact same cloth!
No, Mara said, shaking her head as she tried to piece together the volatile, unpredictable man she had met in the restaurant and the warehouse. He said his father thinks he’s a liability. He said he wanted to find out who was stealing without telling his father.
Thomas scoffed bitterly. "A liability? That’s what they want you to think. The Castellanos don't do family drama, Mara. They do power plays. Dante isn't trying to fix the docks—he’s trying to find our father’s ledger so he can use it to overthrow his old man and take absolute control of the syndicate."
Before Mara could process the warning, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the warehouse floor below.
May you like
A heavy steel door slammed shut. Then came the sound of boots—multiple pairs—marching purposefully across the concrete toward the staircase.
---
