“What happened that night?”
Anthony hesitated.
“Gabriel gave your father something.”
“The key?”
“No.”
“What?”
“A ledger.”
My father had kept hundreds.
“What was inside it?”
“Evidence that Vincent had been taking money.”
My jaw tightened.
Fourteen years earlier.
Vincent had betrayed us before.
And my father had known.
“Why didn’t my father remove him?”
Anthony looked ashamed.
“Because the ledger also involved people your father couldn’t afford to lose.”
“Who?”
“I never knew.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s true.”
“So Gabriel leaves?”
“Yes.”
“And Vincent stays.”
“Yes.”
“And three years ago, Gabriel d!ed after saying Vincent found him.”
Anthony lowered his gaze.
“I didn’t know that part.”
Maria’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“What happened to the ledger?”
Anthony shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Daniel, your father was the only person who knew where half his records ended up.”
“Did Vincent know Gabriel gave it to him?”
“Eventually.”
“How?”
“Your father confronted him.”
I stood so quickly that my chair rolled backward.
“My father confronted Vincent with evidence and then kept him around?”
“He believed he could control him.”
My father’s lifelong weakness.
Control.
He had always believed leverage was stronger than loyalty.
I had inherited the same belief.
“He was wrong,” I said.
Anthony remained silent.
Maria looked toward me.
“You trusted Vincent.”
“For eleven years.”
“But your father didn’t.”
“Apparently not.”
Anthony’s expression shifted.
“There’s something else.”
I nearly laughed.
Of course there was.
“What?”
He gestured toward the notebook.
“Your father knew Gabriel had a daughter.”
Maria frowned.
“Sofia wasn’t born.”
“Not Sofia.”
Silence.
Maria’s expression emptied.
“What did you say?”
Anthony looked at her.
“Gabriel had a daughter before he met you.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“He told your father.”
Maria stood.
“You’re lying.”
“Maria—”
“My husband never had another child.”
“He did.”
She looked toward me as if I had somehow caused those words.
I couldn’t help her.
Anthony continued cautiously.
“The girl lived with her mother in New Jersey.”
“What was her name?” Maria asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“You expect me to believe you remember a meeting fourteen years ago but can’t remember a child’s name?”
Anthony looked troubled.
“I only heard it once.”
“How old?”
“I don’t know. Maybe five or six at the time.”
