Chapter 11 - THE LAST LIE
I had spent sixteen months learning how to live without looking over my shoulder.
It took one photograph to ruin that progress.
Gabriel locked the church doors.
Beatrice closed the kitchen blinds.
I placed the photograph beneath a bright desk lamp.
My parents stood in front of a hotel entrance.
My father looked younger.
My mother looked unhappy.
Salvatore was smiling.
The fourth man was turned slightly toward the camera.
Mid-fifties then.
Expensive coat.
Silver hair.
A ring on his right hand.
Oval shape.
A black center surrounded by a thin gold border.
Federal prosecutor Jonathan Mercer wore the same ring.
I remembered because during our first meeting he had tapped it against the interrogation table every time he thought I was lying.
Gabriel leaned closer.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe it's common.”
“It isn't.”
Beatrice looked at me.
“How do you know?”
“Because I asked him about it.”
“What did he say?”
“Family heirloom.”
Gabriel exhaled.
“Of course.”
I turned the photograph over.
LORENZO WAS NEVER THE ONE IN CHARGE.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
Beatrice asked, “Could Lorenzo have sent this?”
“He's in federal custody.”
“That isn't a no.”
She had learned quickly.
“No.”
Gabriel walked toward the window.
“What if Mercer used us to destroy Lorenzo?”
“That would explain why he offered such favorable cooperation terms.”
“You still served time.”
“He needed credibility.”
Beatrice shook her head.
“We're assuming too much.”
She pointed at the picture.
“One photograph doesn't prove conspiracy.”
She was right.
That annoyed me.
“What do we know about Mercer?” Gabriel asked.
“Career federal prosecutor. Organized crime division. Twenty-eight years.”
“Chicago?”
“Mostly.”
“Cases against Dad?”
“Several.”
“Successful?”
I thought.
“Almost none.”
Gabriel turned.
“That isn't normal.”
No.
It wasn't.
My father had always spoken about Mercer with strange respect.
Not hatred.
Not fear.
Respect.
He once called him useful.
At the time, I assumed he meant predictable.
Now I wondered.
The next morning, I called my former attorney.
“Jonathan Mercer.”
“What about him?”
“Find everything.”
A pause.
“Roman, you're on supervised release.”
“I know.”
“You cannot investigate federal prosecutors.”
“I'm asking you to conduct legal research.”
“That sounded almost respectable.”
“Prison changed me.”
“Not enough.”
He called back six hours later.
Jonathan Mercer had attended Loyola University.
His father had been a union attorney.
His mother died when he was young.
Nothing remarkable.
Until the attorney found an old corporate registration.
Mercer Strategic Consulting.
Created twenty-nine years earlier.
Silent investor: S. Vale Holdings.
Salvatore.
Gabriel read the document.
“Federal prosecutor funded by our uncle.”
“Before Mercer became federal.”
Beatrice folded her arms.
“So Mercer owed him.”
“Or worked with him.”
“But why destroy Lorenzo?”
Good question.
I called Marco.
He was awaiting sentencing but allowed monitored attorney communications.
The moment I mentioned Mercer, he went silent.
“You know him.”
Marco whispered, “Boss—”
“Roman.”
“Roman.”
“What do you know?”
“Lorenzo was afraid of one person.”
“Salvatore?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Marco hesitated.
“Someone he called the Counselor.”
Gabriel and I exchanged a look.
“Mercer?”
“I never knew.”
“What did the Counselor do?”
“Settled problems.”
“What kind?”
“Federal problems. Police problems. Political problems.”
My stomach tightened.
An organization like ours could not survive for generations on fear alone.
Someone had always made cases disappear.
Evidence vanish.
Investigations stall.
I had assumed corruption was scattered.
Maybe it had been centralized.
“Did my father know?”
“Yes.”
“Did my mother?”
Marco hesitated.
“I don't think so.”
“What about Northstar?”
“The Counselor received percentages.”
Beatrice went pale.
“So Mercer profited.”
“If Mercer is the Counselor.”
I ended the call.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Roman.”
Jonathan Mercer's voice.
Of course.
“You received the photograph.”
Not a question.
I looked at Gabriel.
“Yes.”
“I hoped you wouldn't.”
“Who sent it?”
“If I knew, we wouldn't be speaking.”
“What do you want?”
“To keep you alive.”
I laughed.
“People who say that to me usually become the reason I'm in danger.”
“Your sense of humor improved.”
“Prison.”
“So I heard.”
His tone remained calm.
“I'll be at St. Agnes in thirty minutes.”
“No.”
“Then I assume you'd prefer federal marshals at your door.”
“For what?”
“You are on supervised release.”
A threat wrapped in procedure.
“Thirty minutes.”
He disconnected.
Beatrice said, “We're not meeting him here.”
“Yes, we are.”
“This is a community center.”
“I know.”
“Children come here.”
“Not tonight.”
She stared at me.
“This place is Patrick's memorial.”
That stopped me.
She was right.
I would not bring my family's war into the one place built from Patrick's sacrifice.
“We meet outside.”
Thirty-five minutes later, Mercer arrived alone.
No government vehicle.
No agents.
He entered through the old courtyard.
Gabriel waited inside the shadows.
Beatrice remained behind a locked side door.
Mercer looked at me.
“You look healthier.”
“You look guilty.”
He smiled.
“Still Roman Vale.”
I held up the photograph.
“Explain.”
He looked at it.
“Where did you get this?”
“You know.”
“No. I know someone wants you asking questions.”
“Were you the Counselor?”
His eyes changed.
Very slightly.
Enough.
“Yes.”
I felt no surprise.
“What did that mean?”
“I kept your father's organization from becoming a national priority.”
“In exchange for money.”
“Information.”
“What information?”
“Your father gave me criminals worse than him.”
I laughed without humor.
“That's what you told yourself?”
“For a while.”
“And Northstar?”
His silence answered.
“You knew.”
“I discovered it late.”
“How late?”
“After Gabriel's attack.”
Gabriel stepped from the shadows.
Mercer did not look surprised.
“You always were difficult to kill.”
Gabriel's jaw tightened.
“You knew I survived.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell Roman?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Salvatore would have killed both of you.”
Gabriel laughed.
“Everyone keeps using protection to justify betrayal.”
Mercer looked tired.
“Your mother said something similar.”
I stepped closer.
“You spoke to her?”
“Many times.”
“Did she know what you were?”
“She knew enough.”
“Did you help Lorenzo kill her?”
“No.”
“Did you know?”
“Not until afterward.”
My hands curled.
“And you did nothing.”
“I started building a case.”
“She was my mother.”
“And Lorenzo controlled police, judges, witnesses, and members of your organization.”
“So did you.”
Mercer did not deny it.
Beatrice came outside.
“Did you know Salvatore killed Patrick Gallagher?”
For the first time, Mercer looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
Her face emptied.
“When?”
“Days after it happened.”
“And you did nothing?”
“I documented it.”
She slapped him.
Harder than she had slapped Salvatore.
Mercer took it.
“You documented it?”
Her voice shook.
“My husband died, and you made a note?”
“I was trying to reach men above Salvatore.”
The courtyard went quiet.
Gabriel frowned.
“Above?”
Mercer closed his eyes.
That was the wrong word.
I stepped closer.
“Who was above him?”
Mercer looked toward the church.
“That's why the photograph was sent.”
“Answer me.”
“Salvatore created Northstar.”
“We know.”
“No.”
Mercer looked at us.
“He created the Chicago branch.”
A cold feeling entered my chest.
Gabriel whispered, “Branch?”
Mercer nodded.
“Northstar wasn't a Vale operation.”
“What was it?”
“A network.”
“How big?”
“New York. Boston. Detroit. Montreal. Parts of Europe.”
Beatrice covered her mouth.
“And Lorenzo?”
“Regional operator.”
All the arrogance.
All the power.
Lorenzo had believed himself king while serving something larger.
“Who runs it?”
Mercer shook his head.
“I've spent twenty years trying to prove that.”
“Then why did someone say Lorenzo wasn't in charge?”
“Because someone wants you to finish what I couldn't.”
I laughed.
“You expect me to become your investigator?”
“No.”
He looked directly at me.
“I expect you to run.”
That silenced us.
Mercer reached inside his coat slowly.
Gabriel raised a gun.
Mercer stopped.
“Envelope.”
He removed it with two fingers.
Inside was a photograph of Beatrice leaving a grocery store the previous day.
Another of Gabriel outside St. Agnes.
Another of me entering my apartment.
We were being watched.
Beatrice whispered, “Who took these?”
“I don't know.”
Mercer said, “Three people connected to the Northstar investigation died this week.”
My pulse changed.
“How?”
“Different methods. Made to look unrelated.”
“And you think we're next.”
“I know you're next.”
A sharp crack split the night.
Mercer's body jerked.
Blood appeared on his coat.
“Down!”
Gabriel pulled Beatrice behind the stone wall.
I caught Mercer as he collapsed.
Another shot hit the church door.
Sniper.
I dragged Mercer behind a pillar.
He was bleeding heavily from the chest.
“Stay with me.”
He laughed weakly.
“People usually enjoy this part.”
“Who?”
Mercer reached toward his pocket.
“New York.”
“What?”
“The network.”
He coughed.
“Look in New York.”
“Who am I looking for?”
His hand found mine.
He pushed a small metal token into my palm.
A black star.
Five points.
On the back:
HARBOR 9.
Mercer's breathing weakened.
“Don't trust…”
His eyes moved toward Gabriel.
Then Beatrice.
Then me.
“Anyone with the star.”
His hand fell.
Jonathan Mercer died before the ambulance arrived.
Police searched surrounding rooftops.
Nothing.
No shell casings.
No witnesses.
The shooter had disappeared.
Three days later, the FBI officially called Mercer's death an attack connected to an ongoing organized crime investigation.
They offered us protection.
Gabriel refused.
I almost did.
Beatrice accepted for the community center.
That was the difference between us.
She cared more about protecting innocent people than proving she wasn't afraid.
A week passed.
Then two.
St. Agnes remained open.
Gabriel began helping there every day.
Children loved him.
Mostly because he let them cheat at cards.
Beatrice ran the kitchen.
And I learned how to wash dishes badly enough that she finally banned me from the sink.
For a while, life became almost ordinary.
One snowy evening, the three of us ate dinner together after closing.
Not prime rib.
Beatrice made beef stew.
Gabriel complained.
“This needs salt.”
She pointed toward the kitchen.
“You know where the door is.”
He kept eating.
I looked at them.
My brother.
The woman whose stolen leftovers had brought him back into my life.
For years, I had believed power meant having enough men that no one could touch you.
I had been wrong.
Power was sitting at a cheap wooden table with people who knew every terrible thing about you and stayed anyway.
After dinner, Beatrice handed me a container.
“What is this?”
“Leftovers.”
I smiled.
“Planning to steal them?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“I'm giving them to you.”
Gabriel laughed.
I took the container.
Then someone knocked on the church door.
Three slow knocks.
We froze.
The center was closed.
Gabriel moved toward the security monitor.
A girl stood outside.
Maybe sixteen.
No coat.
Snow covered her dark hair.
She was holding something against her chest.
Beatrice immediately opened the door before either of us could stop her.
The girl stumbled inside.
“Please.”
She looked terrified.
“Are you Roman Vale?”
I stepped forward.
“Yes.”
She handed me a package.
Black wrapping.
No address.
“Someone paid me to bring this.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
She ran before I could stop her.
Gabriel closed the door.
I opened the package.
Inside was a black star identical to Mercer's.
A train ticket.
Chicago to New York.
And one photograph.
A man stood outside a Manhattan restaurant.
Older.
Silver-haired.
Elegant.
I had never seen him before.
But Gabriel had.
The container of stew fell from his hands.
It shattered across the floor.
Beatrice turned.
“Gabriel?”
He stared at the photograph as if he had seen a ghost.
I grabbed his arm.
“Who is he?”
My brother's face went white.
“When I escaped Minnesota…”
His voice barely worked.
“…I wasn't alone.”
“What are you talking about?”
Gabriel pointed toward the photograph.
“That man found me.”
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
“What did he do?”
Gabriel looked at me.
“He told me Roman Vale had ordered my death.”
My blood froze.
“And I believed him.”
The church went silent.
Beatrice whispered, “Who is he?”
Gabriel turned the photograph over.
A name had been written across the back.
VINCENT DRAKE.
Below it were seven words.
COME TO NEW YORK AND LEARN EVERYTHING.
I stared at those words for a long time.
Twelve years earlier, someone had declared my brother dead.
Eleven years earlier, someone convinced him I wanted him dead.
For more than a decade, lies had kept us separated while men built fortunes from our family's blindness.
I had spent my life believing monsters were easy to recognize.
They carried guns.
They threatened families.
They ordered executions.
But the most dangerous men I had ever known rarely needed to pull a trigger.
They simply told the right lie to the right person and waited for everyone else to destroy one another.
Beatrice picked up the fallen photograph.
“Are you going?”
I looked at Gabriel.
For twelve years, I had believed he was beneath a grave.
For eleven of those years, he had believed I had put him there.
Yet somehow we were standing together.
“No more running,” Gabriel said.
Beatrice looked at me.
I slipped the black star into my pocket.
Outside, Chicago snow fell over St. Agnes.
Twelve years earlier, my empire had buried the truth.
Now the empire was gone.
And I was finally free to dig it up.
I looked at my brother.
Then at Beatrice.
“Pack a bag.”
Gabriel smiled.
“New York?”
I opened the church door.
The wind hit my face.
“New York.”
And somewhere nine hundred miles away, a man named Vincent Drake was waiting for the dead brother, the former mafia boss, and the maid nobody had ever considered dangerous.
He was about to learn the same lesson Lorenzo had learned too late.
Beatrice Gallagher was never just the maid.
Gabriel Vale was never truly dead.
May you like
And I was no longer protecting an empire.
That made me far more dangerous than I had ever been before.
