Chapter 4 - The Key to the Kingdom
Dawn broke over Lake Michigan in ribbons of violet and gold, but I had not slept a single minute.
I sat curled in an armchair by the glass, dressed in dark trousers and a cashmere sweater Alexander’s staff had provided.
At seven in the morning, the elevator chimed again.
Alexander stepped out, impeccably dressed in a tailored navy three-piece suit that made him look like royalty.
"We have an appointment," he said, setting two cups of black coffee on the table.
I looked at him warily.
"Derek has the building surrounded by reporters."
"Derek has the front entrance surrounded by reporters," Alexander corrected with a faint smirk.
"He doesn't know about the subway tunnel beneath the sub-basement."
"Where are we going?"
"To your father’s bank."
My cup clattered against the saucer.
"My father didn't have a private bank account."
"Not under his name, no," Alexander replied, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Under yours."
Thirty minutes later, we were traveling beneath the city streets in a blacked-out armored Suburban.
Alexander sat beside me, reviewing documents on a tablet while Marco drove through the labyrinth of Chicago traffic.
The tension in the vehicle was thick enough to choke on.
Every time a siren wailed in the distance, my body locked up with instinctive terror.
Alexander noticed without looking up from his screen.
He reached out and deliberately placed his broad hand over mine on the leather seat.
He didn't squeeze.
He simply grounded me with his warmth.
"Breathe, Emily."
"I feel like everyone is looking for me."
"They are," he answered candidly.
"The police, the press, and the Falcone crime family."
"The Falcones?"
"Derek’s true masters," Alexander explained, his voice chillingly pragmatic.
"They used Derek to infiltrate your life because they believed Daniel hid the master ledger in your possession."
"And did he?"
"We are about to find out."
The Suburban pulled into an underground parking structure beneath the First National Trust on LaSalle Street.
Two armed guards flanked the private elevator as we ascended directly to the safety deposit vault.
The bank president, an elderly man with thinning silver hair and shaking hands, bowed slightly when Alexander stepped out.
"Mr. Moretti," the man murmured, sweating despite the air conditioning.
"Everything has been prepared as you instructed."
"Leave us," Alexander ordered.
The president scurried away, locking the heavy steel gates behind him.
We stood alone in a room lined with thousands of polished steel boxes.
Alexander walked down the third aisle, counting under his breath, until he stopped at box number 418.
"April eighteenth," I said, recognizing the numbers instantly.
"My birthday."
Alexander pulled a small, brass key from his waistcoat pocket.
"Your father gave me this key twelve hours before he died."
"He told me to hold it until you were ready."
"How did he know I would ever be ready?"
"He said you had his blood," Alexander said, handing me the cold metal key.
"And that when the time came, you would choose to fight."
My hands shook as I inserted the key into the lock.
It turned smoothly, with a heavy, satisfying metallic click.
Alexander reached up and slid the long metal container out of the wall, placing it onto the marble viewing table.
I took a deep breath and lifted the lid.
Inside lay three distinct items.
The first was a thick, leather-bound notebook filled with my father's meticulous, handwritten mathematical figures.
The second was an old cassette tape labeled with my name.
And the third was an envelope containing a single photograph of Derek Carter, dated four years before I had ever met him.
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On the back of the photograph, in my father’s hurried, familiar handwriting, were four chilling words:
He is coming. Run.
