Chapter 4 - The Sound of the Deadbolt
The brass desk lamp flickered once, then held steady, casting a sickly green glow across the green felt of the viewing table.
Dante didn't hesitate. He stepped across the small booth, gripped the brass door handle, and threw his weight against it.
The door didn't budge. The deadbolt had been thrown from the outside with a heavy industrial key—the kind used by the bank’s security detail or the building manager.
"Dante," Elena said, her voice remarkably steady as she stood beside the table, holding the yellow legal paper in her hand. "Look at the corner of the document."
Dante turned away from the door, his eyes scanning the page she held out.
In the bottom right-hand corner, beneath the digital watermark of Vance & Sterling, was a second stamp—not a law firm’s seal, but the embossed crest of the Chicago Police Department’s Internal Affairs Division.
"Internal Affairs," Dante muttered. "Not the state's attorney."
"My father didn't just buy the city council," Elena said, her dark eyes narrowing as she looked at the photographs of the Canal Street fire scattered across the table. "He had a direct line into the police department’s archive division since the eighties. If Vance filed this transfer notice, it means the city didn't just lose those records—they were subpoenaed by someone inside the department forty-eight hours ago."
"Who?"
Before Elena could answer, the small, wire-mesh reinforced window set into the upper half of the booth’s wooden door darkened.
A shadow fell across the green felt.
"Mr. Moretti," a voice filtered through the glass—smooth, professional, and entirely devoid of the gritty Chicago accent that belonged to the dockworkers and union bosses Dante usually dealt with. "I’m Inspector Vance. No relation to the attorney, I assure you."
Dante stepped back in front of Elena, his shoulders squared, his hands loose at his sides.
"Inspector," Dante said, his voice dropping into that cold, level register that usually made city officials check their watches. "You're a long way from headquarters. And this is a private bank vault."
"It was a private bank vault," the voice through the door replied mildly. "Until the bank’s legal counsel received a federal preservation order regarding the Arthur Whitaker estate. As of ten minutes ago, the contents of Box 412 are evidence in an active reopening of the 1988 Canal Street arson investigation."
Dante’s jaw tightened. "The statute of limitations on arson expired twenty-five years ago."
"Arson, yes," Inspector Vance said smoothly. "First-degree murder committed during the commission of a felony? That doesn't expire in the state of Illinois, Mr. Moretti. Especially when new evidence suggests the victims were locked inside their apartments intentionally."
Elena stepped out from behind Dante’s shoulder.
"Open the door, Inspector," she said, her voice cutting through the wood like a glass cutter.
"Mrs. Moretti," the inspector replied, sounding almost amused. "Your father has been trying to reach you all morning. Apparently, he was under the impression you were still staying at the penthouse."
"My father can talk to my lawyer," Elena said.
"He tried," Vance said. "Unfortunately, your lawyer—Mr. Willem Vance—is currently answering questions downtown regarding a rather suspicious wire transfer from a Delaware shell company."
Dante felt a strange, cold clarity settle over him.
Raymond Cole and Salvatore Moretti hadn't just been building an empire on the river; they had been building a graveyard. And for thirty years, the city’s legal and police apparatus had been the shovel.
"You don't have a warrant for our arrest," Dante said, his eyes fixed on the shadow behind the glass.
"No," Inspector Vance agreed. "I have a warrant for the contents of the box. Which are currently in your possession. If you walk out of that booth and hand the box over to my officers in the corridor, you’re free to go home to your wife. If you attempt to destroy the documents..."
A heavy thud shook the wooden door.
"Miller," Dante said into the collar of his shirt, pressing the hidden emergency comm-link he always wore beneath his collar.
There was no static.
Just a low, rhythmic hum.
"Miller," Dante repeated, his voice sharpening.
"He's busy, Dante," a new voice crackled through the tiny speaker.
It wasn't Miller’s gravelly growl. It was smooth, older, and touched with the unmistakable cadence of a man who hadn't walked the docks in twenty years because he owned the men who did.
Salvatore Moretti.
"Dad," Dante said, his blood turning to ice.
"You should have stayed in the penthouse, son," Salvatore’s voice drifted through the tiny speaker, tinny and distant, yet unnaturally clear. "Elena was supposed to catch the flight to Colorado this morning. Why are you digging through the basement?"
Dante looked at Elena. Her face had gone completely white, her lips parted as she listened to the voice of her own father’s oldest, deadliest ally.
"You were at the Canal Street fire," Dante said into his collar, his voice shaking with a rage that had no bottom. "You and Cole."
"We were businessmen, Dante," Salvatore sighed, sounding almost tired. "We were building a city. You think Chicago was built on prayers and handshakes? It was built on concrete and smoke. Now open the door and hand the box to the inspector. We'll handle this over Sunday dinner, like civilized people."
Dante looked down at the tin box on the green felt.
The photographs of the burning tenement.
The ledger detailing the purchase of the water bonds.
The name of the man who had ordered the valves shut.
He reached down, his strong fingers closing around the edges of the box.
"Sunday dinner's canceled, Dad," Dante said.
May you like
He didn't wait for his father to answer. He slammed his boot heel directly into the lock mechanism of the wooden door with a splintering crash that echoed off the marble walls of the bank vault.
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