THE MAFIA KING’S DEBT

Elena’s pov The phone rang while I was still deciding between the navy blouse and the cream one. I had the cream half-buttoned when I saw the unknown number with the local area code. Most people texted. My father never called during the workday unless something had gone sideways at the warehouse. I answered on the second ring. “Elena Moretti?” The voice was careful, formal, the kind used by people who delivered news for a living. “Speaking.” “This is Detective Harris with the city police. I’m sorry to inform you that your father, Vincent Moretti, was found deceased this morning at his office.” The words arrived in a neat, clinical package. I stood very still, one hand still on the button of the blouse, and waited for the part where he corrected himself. He didn’t. “How?” My voice came out steady. That surprised me. “Apparent cardiac event. We’re still waiting on the medical examiner’s preliminary findings. You’ll need to come down to identify him, and then we can release the premises once the scene is cleared.” I wrote down the address he gave me even though I already knew it by heart. “Was anyone with him?” “No one was present when the cleaning crew found him. The door was unlocked. Lights on. Looks like he’d been working late.” “He always worked late,” I said. “Did he call anyone? Leave any messages?” “We’re checking the phone records now. Is there a next of kin besides yourself we should notify?” “I’ll handle the family. Just tell me where to go.” He gave me the building address and the name of the officer who would meet me. I thanked him, hung up, and finished buttoning the cream blouse because the alternative was standing there half-dressed and useless. The drive across town took twenty-three minutes. Traffic moved the way it always did on a Thursday morning. I kept both hands on the wheel and catalogued the ordinary things: the coffee I’d left on the kitchen counter, the client presentation I was supposed to deliver at eleven, the fact that my father had complained of indigestion two nights ago and then waved off my suggestion that he see a doctor. Ordinary. Manageable. Until it wasn’t. The building looked the same. Brick façade, faded green awning, the small parking lot already half full of official vehicles. A uniformed officer checked my ID at the side entrance. “Elena Moretti,” I said, holding out my license. “Detective Harris is expecting me.” He glanced at the card, then at my face. “Sorry for your loss, ma’am. He’s inside.” Detective Harris met me in the hallway. Mid-forties, tired eyes, polite distance. He walked me through the formalities without rushing. “Identification first,” he said. “Then we can talk about access to the office.” “All right.” The room where they had him was small and cold. My father’s face was peaceful in a way that felt wrong. I nodded once. “That’s him.” Harris handed me a form. “Sign here. We’ll release the body to the funeral home of your choice once the medical examiner is finished.” I signed. “When can I get into the office?” “We’re finishing up now. Personal effects are still on the desk and in the filing cabinets. You’re free to collect them once the last tech clears out. Anything strikes you as unusual about his recent behavior?” I thought of the indigestion complaint, the way he’d cut short our last phone call. “He was tired. Stressed about a shipment delay last week. Nothing that made me think this.” “Any business partners or people he might have argued with?” “He ran the company alone. Hired drivers and warehouse staff, but the books stayed with him.” Harris made a note. “We’ll be in touch once the autopsy results come in. Call if anything seems off after you go through the papers.” He left me alone in the small reception area that doubled as a waiting room. The receptionist’s desk was empty. My father had never hired a full-time assistant; he preferred to keep the books and the schedule himself. I sat on the stiff vinyl couch and listened to the low murmur of voices from the back rooms. Twenty minutes later the last of the crime scene techs packed up. Harris handed me the keys and a business card. “The office is yours. Lock up when you’re done.” I waited until the last cruiser pulled away before I unlocked the main office door. The room looked almost normal. Papers stacked in the usual neat piles. The old brass lamp is still on. But the top drawer of the filing cabinet was locked, and my father never locked that drawer. He kept the key on the same ring as the office keys. It wasn’t there. I checked the desk. The calendar was open to today’s date. A single notation in my father’s tight handwriting: R. 10 a.m. Nothing else. No name. No number. I tried the locked drawer again. The metal resisted. On the blotter, half-tucked under a stack of invoices, I found a folded scrap of paper. Not my father’s usual stationery. The handwriting was unfamiliar, blocky and hurried. Vincent—
 They’re asking questions again. The Romanos don’t forget. Move the files or burn them. Your call.
 —S I read it twice. The name sat on the page like something that didn’t belong in this room. My father ran a mid-sized logistics company. Warehousing. Freight coordination. Nothing that involved people who needed to be forgotten. I slipped the note into my pocket and kept looking. The safe behind the framed photograph of the old warehouse sat open a fraction of an inch. Empty. The photograph itself was slightly crooked, as if someone had lifted it and set it back in a hurry. Outside, a car door closed. I stepped to the window that overlooked the lot. A black sedan had pulled into the space nearest the entrance. The driver stayed behind the wheel. The passenger door opened and a man stepped out. He was tall, dark suit, no tie, the kind of quiet posture that suggested he didn’t need to announce himself. He looked up at the building once, then walked toward the side entrance with the unhurried certainty of someone who already knew the way. I met him in the hallway before he reached the office door. “Elena Moretti?” His voice was low, measured, as if he had practiced saying the name the correct number of times. I kept one hand on the doorframe. “Who’s asking?” “Someone who knew your father better than most.” He stopped a few feet away, hands visible at his sides. “My name is Dante. I’m here about the business. And about the Romanos.” “I don’t know any Romanos.” “Your father did. That’s why I’m standing here.” He glanced past me toward the open office door. “We need to talk. Preferably before anyone else shows up looking for the same files.” I didn’t move. “What files?” “The ones that got him killed,” he said quietly. “And the ones that will get you killed if you keep standing here alone.”