Chapter 13 - The Reckoning of Terre Haute
Three days after the truth tore open the silence of Blackwood Cliff, the Atlantic skies cleared into brilliant, glacial blue.
The wreckage in the study had been cleared away.
The diamond necklace had been handed over to Agent Miller for asset forfeiture, wiping the last physical trace of Camille's betrayal from the estate.
Yet a loose thread still fluttered in the wind, sharp enough to cut throats.
Salvatore Bianchi had sent that encrypted transmission for a reason.
A dying mob enforcer facing life in maximum security doesn't drop explosive truth bombs out of a desire for historical accuracy.
He does it to set a board in motion.
At 9:00 AM on Thursday, an unmarked black helicopter with Department of Justice livery landed on the bluffs behind the estate.
Agent Marcus Miller stepped down from the cabin, his trench coat flapping in the rotor wash.
I stood on the stone terrace, holding Leo bundled in a thick fleece bunting against the sea breeze, watching Daniel walk out to meet the federal agent.
The two men spoke in low, sharp bursts for five minutes before Miller turned and walked toward the terrace to greet me.
"Miss Jenkins," Miller said, tipping his fedora with professional courtesy.
"Agent Miller," I replied, shifting Leo's weight to my hip.
"Why are you here in person?"
Miller looked from me to the baby, who was happily babbling at the circling gulls overhead.
"Salvatore Bianchi survived his surgery, but his kidneys are failing," Miller said evenly.
"The Bureau of Prisons physicians give him less than two weeks.
He filed a formal petition under Rule 35 to provide material testimony regarding unindicted co-conspirators in the Russo organization."
"He already gave us the truth about Camille," Daniel said, stepping up beside me, his hand settling protective and warm on the small of my back.
"That wasn't all he gave," Miller replied, pulling a laminated visitor pass from his coat.
"Salvatore stated under oath that Marco Russo didn't store his private slush funds in offshore accounts.
Before the raid on the silos, Marco transferred twenty-five million dollars in bearer bonds into a private commercial safety deposit box right here in Boston.
Under the name of an operative who hasn't been picked up by the task force."
Daniel’s eyes narrowed into twin flint points.
"Who?"
"He refuses to name the individual to federal prosecutors," Miller said.
"He told the warden he will only give the name and the security key to one person: Rachel Jenkins."
My blood went instantly cold.
"Me?" I gasped, clutching Leo closer.
"Why me?
I never met Salvatore Bianchi until he had a gun to my brother's skull!"
"Because you are the only person in this equation who has clean hands, Miss Jenkins," Miller said.
"Salvatore knows Daniel would kill him the second he walked into an interrogation cell.
He knows the feds will seize the bonds for restitution.
He wants to use that twenty-five million as a final bargaining chip to ensure his sister's family in Sicily receives a private pension before he dies.
He trusts you because your brother took a beating to protect you, and you walked through fire to protect an infant that wasn't yours."
"She is not going into a maximum-security prison to talk to a dying hitman," Daniel snarled, stepping directly between Miller and me.
"Daniel, wait," I said softly, touching his forearm.
Daniel turned, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with protective fury.
"No, Rachel.
We are done with these monsters.
We don't need their blood money."
"This isn't about money, Daniel," I said firmly, looking straight into his eyes.
"If there is an active operative in Boston holding twenty-five million dollars of Marco's money, that person is a direct threat to Leo.
They have the capital to hire contract shooters.
They know Marco is in prison, and they know Daniel Russo is living in Marblehead.
If we don't take that weapon out of their hands now, we will spend the next twenty years looking over our shoulders every time Leo steps outside."
Daniel stared at me, the conflict raging behind his eyes.
He wanted to shield me from the world, to lock the gates of Blackwood Cliff and pretend the shadows didn't exist.
Yet he knew, with the cold tactical mind that had kept him alive for decades, that my analysis was flawless.
"I go with her," Daniel told Miller.
"Protocol permits you to observe through the one-way mirror in the monitoring suite, Daniel," Miller replied.
"You cannot enter the interview booth.
If Salvatore sees your face, the deal is dead."
Daniel looked back at me, his fingers closing tightly over mine.
"Two hours," he murmured, his voice thick with unyielding devotion.
"If he makes a single move that frightens you, I tear that door off its hinges and put him in the ground myself."
"He's an old man tied to a dialysis machine, Daniel," I said, offering a faint, confident smile.
May you like
"And I survived Suite A with you.
There is nothing Salvatore Bianchi can say that will break me now."
