Chapter 2 2

Right after dinner his mother bid him good night; Marco slumped in his desk chair, rubbing his eyes. The paper on chemical reactions was due tomorrow, and Ellie had already finished her half of the lab report. She'd texted him twice tonight asking for his portion. He couldn't let her down-not when she'd covered for him during last week's lab when he'd been too exhausted after his father's business dinner to properly prepare.

His birth certificate had to be here somewhere. Mrs. Keller was adamant that they needed official documents for their "Personal Heritage" project, and his mother had sworn it was in his father's desk. Marco glanced at the clock-11:38 PM. His father wouldn't be home for at least another hour, and his mother had already gone to bed.

The mahogany desk in his father's study felt imposing, its dark wood gleaming under the soft lamplight. Marco had always been allowed in here to use the computer, but rummaging through the drawers felt like crossing a boundary. He started with the shallow top drawer-pens, paperclips, business cards for "Ricci Insurance & Investment Services." Nothing personal.

The left-side drawer yielded only carefully organized folders of household expenses. The right side was locked.

"Great," Marco muttered, running his hand along the underside of the drawer. No key taped there, like in the movies. He glanced around the room, his eyes landing on the small decorative box on the bookshelf where his father kept spare change and his collar stays. Inside, among the coins and metal clips, a small brass key glinted.

The drawer slid open smoothly to reveal more neatly labeled folders-taxes, insurance policies, property deeds. Behind them, a leather-bound folder embossed with "Family Records." Marco pulled it out, feeling a small surge of triumph.

Inside were his parents' marriage certificate, their passports, and several documents in Italian that Marco couldn't read. But no birth certificate. He flipped through again, then checked behind the folder to see if anything had slipped out.

That's when he noticed it-the drawer didn't seem as deep as it should be.

Marco removed all the folders and ran his fingers along the inside. The drawer was about two inches shorter than the ones beside it. He pressed against the back panel, feeling something give slightly under pressure. When he pushed harder against the top edge, there was a soft click. The false bottom lifted.

His heart raced as he peered inside the hidden compartment. There, nestled in the shallow space, lay a sleek black handgun and a small leather-bound notebook. Marco stared, unable to process what he was seeing. His father-who had lectured him about violence whenever he played video games and who changed the channel when news of shootings came on-had a gun hidden in his desk.

With trembling fingers, Marco lifted the notebook. Inside were pages of handwritten entries-names, dates, and numbers. Some entries were annotated with cryptic symbols and abbreviations. None of it made sense to him, but the secrecy alone sent warning signals racing through his mind.

Santini-85k-10/12 (P)

Barzini-120k-10/15 (C)

Rossi-45k late (2 wk)-warning issued

Marco flipped through more pages, his confusion deepening. These looked like payments, but for what? And why were some marked with letters in parentheses? He recognized a few of the names-Mr. Santini owned the Italian restaurant downtown where they celebrated family birthdays. Mr. Rossi ran the construction company that had renovated their kitchen last year.

A car door slammed outside, startling Marco so badly he nearly dropped the notebook. Headlights swept across the window blinds as a vehicle pulled into the driveway. Heart hammering, he quickly returned the notebook and gun to their hiding place, closed the false bottom, replaced the folders, and locked the drawer. He slipped the key back into the decorative box just as the front door opened.

"Hello?" his father called.

"In here," Marco answered, trying to keep his voice steady as he pretended to use the computer. "Just finishing some homework."

His father appeared in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. At forty-five, Dominic Ricci still carried himself with the athletic confidence of his youth, though his dark hair was now threaded with silver at the temples. He loosened his tie, regarding Marco with a tired smile.

"It's late, son. School tomorrow."

Marco nodded, unable to meet his father's eyes. "I know. I just needed to look something up for chemistry."

"Your mother tells me you have a project on family heritage?"

Marco's mouth went dry. "Yeah, we need birth certificates and stuff."

His father moved to the desk, reaching for the drawer Marco had just locked. Every muscle in Marco's body tensed.

"I think your certificate is with the other family documents," his father said, producing the key from his pocket. "Let me get that for you."

Marco watched his father unlock the drawer and retrieve the leather folder, thumbing through it with familiar ease. Had he imagined the false bottom? The gun? But no-his father only opened the drawer partway, careful not to pull it all the way out.

"Here we are," his father said, handing Marco an official-looking document. "Your mother had it in the safe deposit box until last month. Don't lose it."

"Thanks," Marco managed, taking the certificate with unsteady hands.

His father studied him for a moment, brow furrowing. "Everything okay? You look pale."

"Just tired," Marco said quickly. "And stressed about this lab report."

His father's expression softened. "Don't stay up too much longer. Some things are more important than perfect grades."

As his father left the room, Marco stared down at his birth certificate, the words swimming before his eyes. Who was Dominic Ricci? The insurance salesman who coached Little League and grilled perfect steaks on Sundays? Or someone who needed hidden guns and secret ledgers of payments?

And if his father was living a double life-what did that make Marco?

He folded the birth certificate carefully and slipped it into his backpack. Tomorrow, he would confront his mother. Tonight, he needed to finish his part of the lab report for Ellie. The equations and chemical formulas suddenly seemed like the only logical, predictable things in his world.

His phone buzzed with another text.

Ellie: Still awake? I need your data for the oxidation reactions.

Marco stared at the message, wondering what Ellie would think if she knew what he'd just discovered. Would she look at him differently if she knew his father might be involved in something illegal? Something dangerous?

Marco: Sorry, got distracted. Sending it now.

He attached his data and pressed send, trying to focus on chemistry rather than the gun in his father's desk. For now, he would keep this discovery to himself. But tomorrow, he would demand answers.