Chapter 6 - THE INHERITANCE
Pier Seventeen belonged to me.
Technically.
That was the first thing Nico explained when we got back to Manhattan.
The second was that my father had apparently spent six years pretending it did not.
We were in the library again because every disaster in my life now seemed to require leather chairs and expensive books.
Paige had been taken to a secure apartment with Sofia and enough guards to make her feel, in her words, “like Taylor Swift without the talent.”
Mr. Bellini was with a doctor.
Carlo was trying to find Salvatore.
And my husband was standing in front of a map of Lower Manhattan, pointing at a piece of waterfront property I had passed a hundred times without knowing my name was buried somewhere in its paperwork.
“Explain it again,” I said.
Nico exhaled.
“Pier Seventeen was originally owned by Hart Maritime Holdings.”
“My grandfather’s company.”
“Yes.”
“He sold it.”
“No.”
I frowned.
“My father said he sold all the maritime assets before I was born.”
“He sold most of them. Not this one.”
Nico placed a folder on the table.
“Your grandfather transferred Pier Seventeen into a trust in 2003.”
“For who?”
He looked at me.
“You.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because apparently my nervous system had only two settings now: argument and inappropriate laughter.
“I was not even born until 2004.”
“The trust named your mother as beneficiary and any future children as successor beneficiaries.”
My smile disappeared.
“My mother.”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
“My mother owned Pier Seventeen?”
“Controlled it through the trust.”
“And after she died?”
“You became controlling beneficiary.”
I stared at the folder.
My mother had been dead for four years.
During those four years, my father had made every major decision in my life as though I depended on him completely.
Apartment.
Tuition.
Trust distributions.
Everything.
“You’re saying I own a major piece of waterfront property.”
“Through the trust, yes.”
“And nobody told me.”
“Apparently not.”
I opened the folder.
The documents were copies.
Trust agreement.
Property schedules.
Corporate registrations.
There was my mother’s name.
Margaret Ellis Hart.
Then mine.
Evelyn Margaret Hart.
I touched the page.
Suddenly the room felt too warm.
“What does this have to do with the marriage?”
Nico sat across from me.
“Your trust has a restriction.”
“Of course it does.”
“The controlling beneficiary can’t sell or permanently transfer the property before age twenty-five without approval from either the original trustee or a spouse.”
I looked up.
“My father was trustee.”
“Yes.”
“So he could sell it.”
“Not after your mother changed the trust.”
My breath caught.
“When?”
“Six months before she died.”
I turned pages faster.
There it was.
AMENDMENT TO THE HART MARITIME TRUST.
My mother’s signature.
The sight of it hit harder than I expected.
Her handwriting had always leaned slightly right.
I remembered birthday cards.
Notes in lunch boxes.
A list stuck to the refrigerator telling me to buy milk and stop stealing her sweaters.
I swallowed.
“What did she change?”
“She removed your father as trustee.”
I looked at Nico.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who replaced him?”
“An independent attorney. Helen Strauss.”
I knew that name too.
My mother’s estate lawyer.
She had retired after Mom died.
“Then why does marriage matter?”
“Because the spouse provision remained.”
I read it myself.
If the successor beneficiary had not attained the age of twenty-five, a transfer affecting more than forty percent of trust assets required written consent from the independent trustee or legally recognized spouse.
My hands went cold.
“So my father needed me married.”
“Yes.”
“To you.”
“Yes.”
“So that you could approve a transfer.”
His face tightened.
“I didn’t know about the trust clause before Bellini mentioned Pier Seventeen.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to decide whether you believe me.”
I stood.
“Convenient.”
“I know.”
“Everything with you is convenient.”
“I know.”
“My father needed your protection. You needed his evidence. Now apparently the property both criminal groups want requires my husband’s signature.”
“I am aware of how this looks.”
“It looks like I married the final signature on a real estate deal.”
His jaw flexed.
“I will never sign a transfer.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Even if my father asks?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it helps you get the drive?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
He walked to the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pen.
Then he placed it beside the trust documents.
“If anyone presents me with a transfer involving that property, my answer is no.”
“Why?”
His eyes lifted.
“Because it’s yours.”
The simplicity of that answer hit me strangely.
Nobody had said that all day.
Not ours.
Not Hart Meridian’s.
Not strategic.
Yours.
I sat again.
“I need to speak to Helen Strauss.”
“We’ve been trying to locate her.”
“Trying?”
“She left New York six months ago.”
“Where?”
“Unknown.”
“That seems normal and reassuring.”
“It does not.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from Sofia.
PAIGE WANTS PIZZA. SECURITY SAYS NO DELIVERY. PLEASE INFORM MY BROTHER HE HAS CREATED A HUMAN RIGHTS CRISIS.
I almost smiled.
Then another message appeared.
Also, we need to talk.
I showed Nico.
His face hardened.
“I’ll call her.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“She said we.”
Thirty minutes later, Sofia arrived.
She looked different.
Not physically.
The confidence was gone.
She held an old yellow envelope.
Nico saw it and became very still.
“Bellini said he sent you something after Dad died.”
Sofia closed the library door.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“After I knew whether it was real.”
“It’s been two years.”
“I know.”
Nico stood.
His voice lowered.
“What was in the envelope?”
Sofia put it on the desk.
“A ledger page. Copies of transfers. Sal’s name.”
Nico stared at her.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You knew our uncle might have been involved in Dad’s death and you said nothing.”
“I did not know that.”
“You hid evidence.”
“Because the day after I received it, someone broke into my apartment.”
Silence.
Sofia’s hands shook.
“I came home and found everything pulled apart. Nothing valuable taken. Just papers.”
Nico’s anger faltered.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because you were already becoming Dad.”
He recoiled like she had struck him.
Sofia continued, tears suddenly bright in her eyes.
“You stopped sleeping. You carried a gun everywhere. Every person became a threat. I thought if I gave you Sal’s name, you would kill him before you knew whether Bellini was telling the truth.”
Nico said nothing.
“So I hid the page.”
“Where?”
“With Mom.”
His head snapped up.
“Our mother knows?”
“Not what it means. I gave her a sealed envelope and told her to keep it.”
Nico walked away.
I watched the siblings stand ten feet apart and somehow seem years away from each other.
“Sofia,” I said quietly.
She looked at me.
“Why tell us now?”
“Because Sal took Paige.”
Her mouth hardened.
“He brought this to your door. Whatever I thought I was preventing, it’s already here.”
She slid the yellow envelope toward Nico.
He didn’t touch it.
I did.
Inside was a photocopy of a handwritten ledger.
Dates.
Amounts.
Initials.
One line was circled.
S.C. — P17 ACCESS — 2.4M.
Another:
V.C. AWARE. RESOLVE BEFORE BOARD.
V.C.
Vittorio Caruso.
Nico’s father.
Then, two weeks later:
V.C. MEDICAL.
I looked at Nico.
His face was unreadable.
Sofia whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He stared at the page.
“Get out.”
Her face crumpled.
“Nico.”
“Not now.”
She left.
I waited until the door closed.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
His eyes flashed.
“Stay out of it.”
“No.”
“This is my family.”
“You made me part of it Saturday.”
“That doesn’t give you permission—”
“To say you’re hurting? No. But I have eyes.”
He turned away.
“Your sister was scared.”
“So she lied.”
“She made a bad decision because she thought she was protecting you.”
“Sound familiar?”
The words stopped both of us.
My father.
Me.
Nico closed his eyes.
I walked closer.
“For what it’s worth, I think people in our families use protection as an excuse for control.”
He gave a humorless laugh.
“On that we agree.”
I looked at the ledger again.
“What is P17 access?”
“Pier Seventeen access.”
“Access to what?”
He walked back to the map.
“Shipping.”
“It’s not an active port.”
“Not publicly.”
I frowned.
Nico pointed to the eastern edge of the property.
“There are old service tunnels beneath the pier. They connect to storage facilities built before modern inspections.”
“And Sal wanted them.”
“Yes.”
“For Petrov.”
“Probably.”
I felt sick.
“My father knew?”
“I don’t know.”
“We need the drive.”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get it.”
Nico laughed once.
“You think James is going to hand it over because we ask nicely?”
“No.”
I picked up my phone.
“I think he’ll hand it over because I know something he doesn’t realize I know.”
“What?”
“That Pier Seventeen is mine.”
Nico studied me.
“He knows.”
“He knows the trust exists. He doesn’t know I’ve read it.”
“You think that matters?”
“My father has lied to me my entire adult life by controlling what information reaches me.”
I stood.
“Men like James Hart don’t panic when they lose money.”
“What makes them panic?”
“Losing control.”
I called him.
He answered on the second ring.
“Evie.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Are you safe?”
“For the moment.”
“What happened in Red Hook?”
“I found out Mom removed you as trustee before she died.”
Silence.
Perfect.
I smiled without humor.
“Still there?”
“Evelyn.”
“I’ll take that as yes.”
“You don’t understand those documents.”
“Interesting. Nico’s lawyers think I do.”
Nico raised an eyebrow.
I ignored him.
“Pier Seventeen belongs to my trust.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Everything seems complicated when you’re lying.”
His breath came hard through the phone.
“What do you want?”
Finally.
“The drive.”
“No.”
“Then tomorrow morning I call Helen Strauss, every trust attorney in Manhattan, and the New York Attorney General’s office.”
Nico’s eyebrows rose higher.
I continued.
“I’ll also petition for a full accounting of every transaction you authorized involving trust property after Mom removed you.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“This isn’t a threat.”
I looked at the documents.
“It’s discovery.”
He went silent.
For the first time in my life, my father had no answer.
Then he said quietly, “You really are your mother’s daughter.”
Pain cut through me.
“You don’t get to use her right now.”
“Meet me tomorrow.”
“Bring the drive.”
“Evie—”
“Bring it.”
I hung up.
Nico stared.
“What?”
“Remind me never to get divorced from you.”
“We already have a prenup.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
For one second, despite kidnappings and murder and betrayal, I laughed.
Then his phone buzzed.
He read the message.
The amusement vanished.
“What?”
“Carlo found Helen Strauss.”
“Where?”
“Connecticut.”
“Good.”
“No.”
He handed me the phone.
A photograph filled the screen.
Helen Strauss’s car sat abandoned beside a rural road.
Driver’s door open.
Blood on the pavement.
No Helen.
My breath stopped.
Below the photograph was a message sent from an unknown number.
BRING EVELYN TO PIER SEVENTEEN.
MIDNIGHT TOMORROW.
COME ALONE.
I read it twice.
Then a final text arrived.
ASK HER MOTHER WHY SHE CREATED THE TRUST.
I looked up at Nico.
“My mother is dead.”
His face had gone very still.
“I know.”
May you like
Another message appeared.
ARE YOU SURE?
