Chapter 4 - The Ledger of Secrets
While Amelia rested under the careful watch of Dr. Russo and Angela, Vincent returned to the diner late that night. The front doors were locked, the neon OPEN sign dark, but the lights inside glowed with a warm, amber hue.
In the back office, Vincent sat at the heavy oak desk, spreading out the contents of the leather portfolio that Vinnie had retrieved from Derek Lawson’s car trunk.
It wasn't just cash and petty drug money.
Among the receipts, burner phones, and gym memberships was a thick manila folder labeled FLETCHER/HAYES - ALBANY ARCHIVE.
Vincent’s fingers stilled. He opened the folder slowly, pulling out police reports, court transcripts, and private investigator notes that dated back to the period just before Amelia fled her hometown.
He had known the broad strokes of her story—an abusive ex-fiancé in law enforcement who used his badge to isolate her, control her finances, and threaten her family. But as Vincent turned the pages of the file, his jaw tightened until the bone showed white beneath his skin.
It wasn't just Raymond Fletcher.
According to the private investigator's notes in Derek’s possession, Raymond hadn't acted alone in tracking Amelia down six months ago. He had hired an outside enforcer—a low-level operative from the North End crew—to find her whereabouts in upstate New York.
And Derek Lawson was the man who had taken the contract.
Vincent stared at a photograph clipped to the back of the file. It was a surveillance shot of Amelia walking out of the diner three weeks ago, carrying a bag of groceries, unaware that a telephoto lens was tracking her every step.
Derek hadn't stumbled into Castellano’s Diner by accident tonight.
He had been sent.
The realization hit Vincent with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't a random bar fight triggered by an unpaid breakfast bill. It was an intentional probe—a test of the fortress Vincent had built around the one person in his life who had brought genuine, quiet peace to his turbulent world.
Vincent picked up his heavy mahogany-encased desk phone and dialed a seven-digit number from memory.
It rang twice before a gruff, gravelly voice answered on the other end.
“Yeah?”
“Sal,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper. “Turn the truck around.”
On the other end of the line, Sal paused, the sound of highway wind rushing through a cracked window in the background. “Boss? We’re halfway to the Pennsylvania border. We were about to drop him off near the state line like you said.”
“Bring him back,” Vincent commanded.
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“You want us to finish it here?”
“No,” Vincent said, his eyes fixed on the photograph of Amelia on his desk. “I want him back in the basement. Because it turns out Derek Lawson wasn't just a drunk swinging his fists. He was an auditor for a dead man.”
