Chapter 5 - The Hidden Vault
The tense drive to my miserable, run-down apartment building felt entirely and completely surreal.
I was sitting quietly in the back of a luxury armored vehicle, completely surrounded by heavily armed, highly trained assassins.
Enzo kicked my flimsy, cheap apartment door open with one massive boot, swiftly sweeping the tiny rooms with his weapon drawn.
“Clear,” the giant announced, lowering his heavy gun.
I rushed straight to my tiny, cramped bedroom and dropped heavily to my knees on the stained carpet.
I pulled the dusty cardboard box from under the cheap bed frame and ripped the packing tape off frantically.
Sitting at the very bottom, carefully wrapped in an old, moth-eaten sweater, was the heavy wooden music box.
I handed it directly to Alessandro, my hands shaking violently with anticipation.
He turned it over slowly, inspecting the bottom wooden panel with a critical, highly expert eye.
He smoothly pulled a small, incredibly sharp switchblade from his pocket and wedged it into a tiny, nearly invisible seam in the dark wood.
With a sharp, satisfying crack, the false bottom of the box popped entirely open.
A small, intricately carved silver key fell directly into Alessandro’s waiting palm.
Engraved heavily on the metal was the logo of a highly exclusive, private offshore bank located in downtown Baltimore.
“A private safety deposit box,” Alessandro murmured, a dark, victorious smile playing on his lips.
We drove immediately to the heavily guarded financial district.
Because I was legally documented as his grieving widow, the nervous bank manager granted me access to the vault without a single question.
Enzo stood right outside the heavy steel door while I turned the silver key in the cold metal lock.
The small metal door swung open silently, and I pulled out a heavy, black fireproof envelope.
I opened it with shaking hands, aggressively dumping the contents onto the stainless steel viewing table.
Three flawless, forged passports.
Two incredibly thick stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills.
And a small, worn black ledger.
I picked up the passports with trembling fingers, opening them slowly one by one.
They all contained recent pictures of David, but with entirely different names, nationalities, and birth dates.
There were absolutely no passports for me.
There were absolutely no travel documents or funds set aside for Logan.
This wasn't a desperate backup plan designed to save his family.
It was a highly calculated escape plan designed entirely for himself.
Any lingering, foolish hope that David had been violently forced into this tragedy completely evaporated in that cold room.
My devastating sadness was instantly and permanently replaced by a cold, sharp, and absolute fury.
I walked purposefully out of the vault and handed the black ledger directly to Alessandro.
May you like
“Find him,” I said, my voice completely devoid of any remaining warmth or emotion.
“And make him pay for what he did to my son.”
