Chapter 3 – THE MEN IN THE BLACK SUV
I rushed to the floor-to-ceiling window of my downtown office.
Three floors below, idling in the loading zone, was a massive black SUV. Its windows were tinted pitch black, but the driver’s side door was open. A man in a dark suit stood on the sidewalk, looking directly up at my window.
He didn’t look like a standard corporate thug. He looked lethal.
“Tyler,” I whispered, turning back to my trembling brother. “Who exactly do you owe money to?”
Tyler collapsed onto my office sofa, burying his face in his hands. “The Moretti family, Sarah. They run the underground casinos in the West End. I got in too deep. I thought I could win it back.”
My mother let out a sharp wail, slapping Tyler on the shoulder. “Are you insane?! You borrowed money from the mob?”
“I didn’t have a choice!” Tyler sobbed. “Dad cut off my trust fund six months ago!”
I stared at my father. “You cut him off?”
Richard paced the room like a caged animal. “The company is bleeding money, Sarah! Sales have plummeted since the new international models came out. I didn’t have the cash to cover his gambling debts anymore.”
The picture was finally coming together. My father’s empire, built on a murdered man’s genius, was collapsing. Tyler, desperate and cut off, had turned to dangerous people. And now, those dangerous people wanted the box.
“Why do the Morettis care about a thirty-year-old murder weapon?” I asked, my mind racing.
“Because Arthur Whitaker didn’t just invent a valve,” a new voice said from the doorway.
We all spun around.
Standing there was a man I had never seen before. He was in his late sixties, impeccably dressed in a tailored gray suit, with silver hair and cold, calculating eyes.
My father backed away, his face pale with terror. “Vincent.”
“Hello, Richard,” Vincent Moretti said smoothly, stepping into the office and closing the door behind him. “It’s been a long time.”
“Get out of my office,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
Vincent ignored me. He looked at the wooden box on my desk, his eyes lingering on the bloodstained belt.
“Arthur Whitaker was a brilliant engineer,” Vincent said softly, walking slowly toward the desk. “But he was also a terrible gambler. Just like your son, Richard. Arthur owed my father a lot of money thirty years ago.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Arthur was paying off his debt by giving us the blueprints to his inventions before he patented them,” Vincent explained. “My family used his designs to build untraceable machinery for our… import operations. He was our golden goose.”
Vincent stopped in front of my father, his gaze turning icy.
“And then you beat him to death with a belt,” Vincent said quietly.
My mother gasped, covering her mouth.
“It was an accident!” Richard pleaded, holding his hands up. “I confronted him about stealing company supplies. He fought back. I hit him too hard. I panicked!”
“You panicked, so you stole his valve designs, patented them yourself, and let the police rule it an industrial accident,” Vincent countered. “You robbed my family of our best asset, Richard. We knew you did it. But we didn’t have proof.”
Vincent looked at Tyler, offering a chilling, polite smile.
“Until your idiot son found the murder weapon hidden under the floorboards and tried to use it to blackmail us into forgiving his gambling debt.”
I stared at Tyler in absolute disgust. “You tried to blackmail the mob with Dad’s murder weapon?”
“I was desperate!” Tyler cried.
Vincent turned to me. “Miss Mitchell. I am a businessman. I don’t care about your family drama. I want the box. I am going to take it to the police, watch your father go to prison for the rest of his life, and seize his company’s assets in the ensuing chaos to recoup what he cost my family thirty years ago.”
He reached for the box.
I slammed my hand down on top of it.
“No,” I said firmly.
Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not taking it,” I said, my heart beating so fast I thought it would break my ribs. “Because if you take it, the police will seize the patent as evidence. The company will be frozen. Eleanor Whitaker will never see a dime of restitution for her husband’s murder.”
“That is not my problem,” Vincent said coldly.
“It is now,” I replied. I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a heavy steel paperweight. Without hesitating, I brought it down violently on the fire alarm pull-station next to the door.
The shrieking alarm pierced the air. Strobe lights flashed.
“The building is evacuating,” I shouted over the noise. “The police will be here in three minutes. If you try to take this box now, you’ll be caught holding a murder weapon when the cops arrive.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He looked at me with a newfound, begrudging respect.
“You have spine, Sarah,” Vincent murmured. “More than your father ever did. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to secure the widow’s money. Then, I’m taking the box. Or I’m taking your brother’s life.”
Vincent turned and walked out the door, disappearing into the panicked crowd in the hallway.
I turned to my family. They were staring at me like they didn’t know who I was.
“Get out,” I told them.
“Sarah, please,” my mother cried. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said, grabbing the box and the compass. “But I am going to Eleanor. Now.”
I ran down the stairwell, clutching the heavy wooden box against my chest. But as I burst out of the emergency exit into the alley, a hand clamped over my mouth and dragged me into the shadows.
TITLE: The Widow’s Secret Vault
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