Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Syndicate
I knew that getting into Dr. Kesler’s private office in Midtown Manhattan was an impossible task for a broke nanny with three black dresses and a faded backpack.
Unless I had help.
At midnight, after the mansion had fallen into its dark, quiet sleep, I walked down to the main floor study. The door was slightly open, a warm light glowing from within.
Vincent Kretti was sitting at his desk, a glass of crystal whiskey resting beside a pile of financial ledgers. He looked up as I stepped into the room.
“You’re up late, Miss Brennan,” Vincent said, his voice quiet in the vast room. “Is Zara crying?”
“No,” I said, walking over to the desk. “Zara is sleeping. Holding a silver bell.”
Vincent set his pen down, staring at me with an unreadable expression. “You did what six professionals couldn't do in two years.”
“Because your professionals are lying to you, Mr. Kretti,” I said, laying it out flat.
Vincent’s posture shifted. The exhausted father vanished, replaced in an instant by the ruthless mafia patriarch whose name made grown men tremble in courtrooms. “Be very careful what you say next, Hazel.”
“Dr. Kesler took the key to Julianna’s rosewood chest,” I revealed, stepping right up to his desk. “He told Zara that if she ever opened it, her mother’s spirit would vanish forever. He’s been using her trauma to keep her terrified, to keep her reliant on his sedatives, and to keep you paying his firm astronomical fees.”
Vincent’s gray eyes turned into shards of ice. He didn't yell. He didn't slam his desk. The absolute silence that settled over him was far more dangerous than any roar.
“Monique,” Vincent called out softly.
The side door of the study opened, and Monique Ashford stepped inside, her face pale.
“Did you know about the key, Monique?” Vincent asked, his tone deceptively gentle.
Monique swallowed hard, her black-gloved hands trembling slightly. “Mr. Kretti... Dr. Kesler assured me that keeping the chest locked was essential for Miss Zara’s emotional stability. He said the contents would trigger a relapse—”
“Where is Kesler’s private archive kept?” Vincent interrupted flatly.
“At his private clinic on East 64th Street,” Monique whispered. “In his desk safe.”
Vincent stood up, pulling his dark suit coat over his shoulders. He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a sleek silver keycard, and tossed it across the desk to me.
“What is this?” I asked, picking it up.
“Access to my private vehicle and security escort,” Vincent said, walking past me toward the door. “We are going to East 64th Street. If what you say is true, Arthur Kesler will not see the sunrise as a free man.”
Thirty minutes later, three black SUVs glided down the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan, stopping outside a grand limestone brownstone near Central Park.
Vincent’s security team bypassed the electronic locks of Kesler’s clinic in less than forty seconds.
We walked into Kesler’s immaculate private office. Vincent stood by the window with his hands in his pockets while two of his men forced open the wall safe behind a oil painting.
Inside the safe were stacks of cash, medical ledgers, and a velvet-lined wooden tray.
In the center of the tray lay an antique brass key attached to a silver tag labeled: Julianna Kretti - Trunk 01.
Beside the key was a thick, black leather journal labeled: Kretti Estate - Behavioral Management.
I picked up the journal and flipped through the pages. As I read the handwritten entries made by Dr. Kesler over the last two years, my blood ran cold.
October 14: Administered secondary acoustic suppressor to subject Zara Kretti. Subject continues to demonstrate memory suppression regarding the night of the vehicle crash.
November 02: Vincent Kretti remains convinced the brake failure was an accident. Must maintain subject’s psychological instability to prevent detailed questioning regarding the vehicle’s maintenance records.
I looked up at Vincent, my voice shaking. “Mr. Kretti... it wasn't an accident.”
May you like
Vincent turned from the window slowly, his face shrouded in darkness. “What did you say?”
“Julianna’s crash... it wasn't brake failure from wear and tear,” I whispered, handing him the journal. “Kesler wasn't just keeping Zara quiet to earn a retainer. He was keeping her quiet because Zara was in the car... and she saw who tampered with the vehicle before they drove away.”
