Page 45 of Deception

They all were.

The first and second door lead to rooms swathed in old sheets, covering the furniture. Rooms that have clearly been unoccupied since the Diamantes came here as a family.

Two sets of bunk beds line the walls of the third room, an old toy chest and colorful wallpaper and rugs visible in the faint light glowing around the closed curtains.

Shaking myself and making sure that my footfalls are silent, I get back on task, heading to the last room.

It’s stark, simple.

This was probably their parent’s room. A queen bed. A desk, TV, and its own bathroom.

Frames that once hung on the walls form a lean-to against the far wall, and I’m tempted to inspect them.

No. Focus.

Assessing the rest of the room, the only things out of place are the suitcase that Adriano is clearly still living out of and his leather laptop bag sitting by the desk. A quick search reveals the drawers are empty, except for some dust and old pencils and paper.

My fingers shake as I lift the briefcase, unzipping it carefully.

His laptop would be ideal, likely full of work-related files.

Assuming he’s an idiot and doesn’t have it password protected.

In the other pocket, I find what I’m looking for.

Spreadsheets. Accounting.

Dock numbers and manifestos.

Most of those are worded in what must be code, but I can tell immediately from terms my brother and father taught me to look for that it’s all illicit materials. Guns. Drugs.

The last packet is full of names, dollar amounts tracked down a list beside them.

Pay outs?

Or debts?

I start to snap a few shots of the pages, trying to keep my hands from quivering. This is it. Everything I need to break them wide open. Or at least enough to get the cops involved properly.

On the last page of the spreadsheet, I stop short.

Rossi, Giorgio/$765,000.

What the hell?

Was he in debt to the Diamantes?

My speculation stutters to a halt when I hear the thump of feet on the stairs.

“Shit!” I choke, setting the briefcase back by the desk and hustling from the room. In a panic I realize I still have the packet of names in one hand, so I dash to the room with the old furniture and boxes, cramming the papers into a box on the bottom of a stack just inside the door.

No sooner do I turn back—patting down the front of my shirt nervously—than Adriano pushes open the door to the wing. He slows as he notices me standing in the hallway, looking guilty as sin.

“Hi.”

“Uh, hi, Adriano.”

“What are you doing in here?” His tone is cool, quiet. Deadly.

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