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She was near the drop.

The Cubans are moving in tighter.

The Ferranos are on edge.

And I’m stuck in the middle, holding pieces that don’t want to fit together.

I head back to the car, steps steady, breath calm.

The dead don’t need me. The living do.

No more distance. No more waiting around to see if she tells me the truth.

No more questions.

I’m getting answers now—whether she gives them or I take them.

Chapter 9 – Chiara

Sal’s out.

He said he was picking up a fan belt and filter set from a shop across Biscayne. He left twenty minutes ago. That gives me time, maybe less if he loops back to check whether I’ve touched the cash drawer again.

I’m already halfway down the basement steps.

The back of the garage smells like oil and heat trapped in concrete. A metallic buzz hums from the light bulb overhead. The basement’s cooler, but not by much. Dust clings to everything—shelves, toolboxes, the top of a cracked fridge no one uses anymore.

I move fast. I’ve done this in my head a hundred times.

The lockbox is under the workbench. Hidden beneath a layer of busted torque wrenches and oily rags. I lift the wooden lid and shove the top tray aside. My fingers wrap around cold steel.

The box hasn’t moved since I found it by accident last month. Just a glance of it. Covered in receipts, pushed to the corner. I asked about it. Sal said it was spare parts invoices.

It didn’t smell like invoices.

I stole the key from his ring two weeks ago. Swapped it with a duplicate I filed myself. He hasn’t noticed.

Now, kneeling on the cement, I slide it into the lock.

Click.

“You said I could trust you,” I whisper under my breath. “That was your first lie.”

I lift the lid.

Inside is a black binder. Worn at the edges. Heavy. Tucked under it, two burner phones, a crumpled envelope stuffed with bills, and a flash drive taped to the inside corner.

But it’s the binder I want.

I pull it out and drop to the floor, back against the workbench. The bulb overhead hums louder now, like it’s straining to stay alive. I flip open the cover.

The first few pages are names.

Names and numbers. Payouts. Dated logs. All hand-written. Neat block lettering—Sal’s style. Some of the entries are in code, but not enough to hide what they are: drop transactions. Runner payments. Fuel reimbursements tied to warehouse rentals.

Ferrano money.

I flip faster. Page after page. More names. Some crossed out in red. Some with checkmarks next to them. I pause on a column labeled “Priority Contacts.”