Chapter 8 - THE GHOSTS OF THE PAST
The name hung in the tense silence of the small apartment.
Joanne Hughes.
Roman’s jaw clenched so hard muscles ticked in his cheek.
“So you know,” Roman said softly, his voice losing its corporate polish.
“I found her diary this morning,” Rebecca said, pulling the leather book from her backpack and slamming it onto the kitchen table.
“Your father murdered David.”
“Your father blamed my mother for the stolen records.”
“And you’ve been hunting her for twenty years to tie up loose ends.”
Roman stared at the weathered leather book.
He didn't touch it.
“My father died five years ago,” Roman said, his voice cold as winter ice.
“I didn't kill him because he was a saint.”
“I killed him because he corrupted everything our family touched.”
Rebecca stared at Roman, searching his face for a lie.
She found only dark, burning honesty.
“You didn't know about my mother?” she asked.
“I knew she fled the night David died,” Roman admitted.
“My father claimed she stole millions in syndicate funds.”
“He lied,” Rebecca opened the diary to the marked page.
“She took the shipping logs to prove your father was running guns through the harbor.”
“She never stole a dime.”
Roman stepped forward, reading the faded ink beneath the lamp light.
His breath hitched.
Every illegal transaction, every payoff, every murder authorized by Senior Costa was detailed in Joanne’s neat cursive.
Including the night David was executed.
“My father told me David died of a heart attack,” Roman whispered, his hands curling into tight fists.
“He lied to you too,” Rebecca said bitterly.
Before Roman could answer, glass shattered in the living room!
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A heavy tear-gas canister rolled across the floor, hissing white smoke.
“Get down!” Roman roared, tackling Rebecca to the floor.
