Chapter 3 – THE ACCOUNTANT’S SECRET

Marco stared at the engraving, the tension in his jaw tightening.

“Your father?” he repeated. “Why would my brother have your father’s watch?”

I shook my head, my mind racing. “My dad has been in an assisted-living facility for three years. His memory is fading. But he always talked about this watch. He said he lost it a long time ago.”

Maria slowly stood up from her chair, her eyes fixed on the gold timepiece in my hand.

“William Carter,” she murmured, the name sounding foreign yet familiar on her lips. “Antonio used to meet a man named Bill. Every Tuesday night, after the restaurant closed. They drank espresso in the back booth.”

My chest tightened. “My dad was an accountant. He worked for a small firm in Brooklyn.”

Marco’s eyes darkened with sudden realization.

“Dad wasn’t the keeper of the ledger,” Marco said softly. “He was just a chef. He didn’t know how to move money offshore.”

He looked directly at me.

“Your father did.”

The dining room felt like it was shrinking.

“No,” I stepped back. “My dad is a good man. He wouldn’t work for the mob.”

“Lily,” Marco’s voice was gentle but firm. “Look at the routing number Richard left on the table.”

I picked up the folded piece of paper. The handwriting was neat, precise.

It was my father’s handwriting.

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

“Richard thinks he has leverage over my family,” Marco said, pacing the length of the table. “He thinks my father stole the money. But the account wasn’t set up by Antonio.”

“It was set up by William,” Maria finished, her hands trembling. “Antonio was protecting him. That’s why he hid the ledger in the restaurant’s foundation.”

I felt physically sick. Serena hadn’t just threatened my job. Her husband was using my father’s deepest secret to destroy the DeLuca family.

“If Richard finds out who really owns this watch…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“He’ll go after your father,” Marco said grimly. “To get the password for the offshore account.”

Marco grabbed his coat from the chair.

“We need to get to your father. Right now.”

“He’s at the Oakwood Care Center,” I said, untying my kitchen apron with shaking hands.

“Lily, wait,” Maria called out.

She opened the red recipe book to the back page.

“Before Antonio died, he told me that if the day ever came when the past caught up with us, I needed to look at the recipe for the Easter Bread.”

Marco paused by the door. “Mom, there is no time for recipes.”

“Just look,” Maria insisted, pushing the book toward him.

Marco glanced at the page. His brow furrowed.

“It calls for exactly forty-two ounces of flour, eighteen egg yolks, and seven cups of sugar. That doesn’t make sense. It would ruin the dough.”

“42-18-07,” Maria whispered.

Marco froze.

“It’s a combination,” he said.

Maria nodded. “To the heavy iron door in the basement of the Brooklyn restaurant. The one Antonio sealed shut thirty years ago.”

Marco looked at me, then at his mother.

“I’m going to get Lily’s father and move him to a safe house. Mom, you need to go home and pack a bag.”

“I am not packing a bag,” Maria said, lifting her chin with a fierce dignity I hadn’t seen all night. “I am going to Brooklyn. I am going to open that door.”

Marco hesitated, torn between protecting his mother and stopping Richard.

“I’ll go with her,” I said firmly. “I know the Brooklyn kitchens. If my father’s secrets are down there, I need to see them.”

Marco looked at me. For a second, the cold, hardened CEO melted away, leaving a man fiercely desperate to protect the people he cared about.

“Do not let her out of your sight, Lily,” Marco commanded.

He handed me his heavy set of keys.

“Take my car. Drive straight there. I will bring your father and meet you.”

I grabbed the keys, taking Maria’s hand.

We rushed out to Marco’s black SUV in the driveway. The night air was freezing, biting through my thin blouse.

I started the engine and tore out of the estate gates, heading toward the city.

Maria sat silently in the passenger seat, clutching the red recipe book to her chest like a shield.

“Mrs. DeLuca,” I said softly as we hit the highway. “I’m sorry. If my father is the reason your family is in danger…”

“Stop,” Maria interrupted gently. “Your father was Antonio’s only friend in those days. If Antonio protected him, there was a good reason.”

We drove into Brooklyn, pulling up to the original DeLuca Family Restaurant.

It was dark, the closed sign hanging in the window.

I unlocked the side door with Marco’s keys.

The kitchen smelled of garlic, old wood, and decades of hard work.

We hurried down the narrow wooden stairs into the basement pantry. The air grew cold and damp.

Behind rows of canned tomatoes and olive oil drums was a brick wall. And set into that brick was a heavy iron door with an old rotary dial.

Maria stepped forward. Her hands shook as she reached for the dial.

Forty-two.

Eighteen.

Seven.

She pulled the heavy iron handle.

With a grinding screech, the door swung open.

I shined my phone flashlight into the darkness.

There was a small wooden desk covered in dust. On top of it sat a massive, leather-bound ledger.

But it was what hung on the wall behind the desk that made my breath catch.

Nailed to the brick was a heavy, dark wool coat.

It belonged to my father.

And sticking out of the pocket was a bright, colorful piece of paper.

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