Chapter 7 - Secrets in the Dark
The inside of Marcus’s carriage house smelled of expensive cigar smoke, gun oil, and aged leather.
We had thirty minutes.
I led Eleanor up the spiral mahogany staircase into his second-floor study. The walls were lined with surveillance monitors showing every square foot of the Cavanaugh estate—including cameras placed inside our living room and hallways that even my father didn't know about.
"Sick bastard," I muttered, looking at the screen displaying Toby doing his homework at the library table.
"Behind the oil painting," Eleanor pointed to a massive portrait of an 18th-century naval battle hanging behind the mahogany desk.
I carefully pulled the frame aside. Behind it sat a digital keypad safe, reinforced with titanium casing.
"Great," I cursed under my breath. "A six-digit alphanumeric code. We don't have time to crack this."
Eleanor stepped forward, inspecting the edges of the keypad. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small piece of cosmetic dusting powder, and blew gently across the buttons.
Faint white dust settled on the glossy plastic. On four of the keys—2, 0, 8, and 5—the residue was distinctly worn away from frequent touch.
"Four digits, not six," she muttered. "Think, Leo. Marcus is an arrogant man. What date matters to him?"
My mind raced. "August 20th? 08-20?"
I punched the numbers. *Red light. Error beep.*
"One more wrong try and it locks out for an hour," I gasped, cold panic rising in my throat.
"Not a date," Eleanor murmured, staring at the numbers. "Look at the letters on those keys. 2 is B. 0 is space. 8 is T. 5 is J."
Suddenly, the cold truth clicked in my brain like a hammer hitting a firing pin.
"The boys," I breathed. "Leo, Julian, Toby. L-J-T. No... he's been planning this since my mother died."
"What was your mother's maiden name?" Eleanor asked sharply.
"Bell," I said. "B-E-L-L. 2-3-5-5. No, the worn keys are 2, 0, 8, 5."
Then I remembered the silver signet ring Marcus always wore on his pinky. An insignia from his old military unit in the Balkans: 8520.
I took a breath and pressed: 8 - 5 - 2 - 0.
*Beep. Green light.*
The heavy locking bolts retracted with a solid *thud*.
I pulled the safe door open. Inside lay three black binders, a stack of unregistered bearer bonds, and a thick, brown manila envelope labeled: *OPERATION FALLEN EMPIRE.*
I tore open the envelope. Inside were wire transfers totaling twelve million dollars from the Rossi family syndicate, shipping manifests for illegal weapon caches, and a typed contract signed by Marcus Vane and Don Emilio Rossi.
The terms were spelled out in cold black ink: *Arthur Cavanaugh eliminated during the Friday winter gala. The three Cavanaugh sons liquidated forty-eight hours prior to prevent blood retaliation. Marcus Vane takes full control of the Cavanaugh shipping terminals.*
"He isn't just starting a turf war," I gasped, holding the document with trembling fingers. "He's selling out the entire family to the Rossis. He's going to slaughter us on Friday."
"Take everything," Eleanor said, grabbing the documents and shoving them into her canvas bag. "We go right now."
Suddenly, the surveillance monitors on the wall flickered.
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On the screen showing the driveway, Marcus had turned around. The utility trucks were still there, but Marcus was walking fast toward the carriage house, his hand already buried inside his jacket.
He hadn't stayed with the inspectors. He was coming back.
