Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(50)

I am on my feet, ready to follow Giada to wherever her grandfather is, in record time. More than just a meeting with her grandfather and the answer to this mystery, this might be my chance to change our circumstances. This might be the only opportunity I have to get help for us. And for my mother.

She leads me back into the main foyer and up a flight of stairs to a narrow landing. At the end of the landing, we enter a large bedroom. Dim light filters in through shuttered windows on two walls and streaks across the floorboards toward an ornately carved four-poster bed. An older man lies deathly still on one side of the bed. His frail frame looks all the more so in comparison to the large bed and the oversize wood furniture situated around the spacious room.

“Nonno, someone is here to see you.” Giada approaches the bed slowly and speaks to her grandfather tenderly.

“A visitor?” He opens his eyes and tries to sit up but ultimately needs Giada’s help to get into a full sitting position. Once he’s propped up on a pile of pillows against the headboard, Giada motions for me to come forward. She moves a high-backed chair from the corner and places it next to the bed for me to sit in. Once I’m in the chair, she perches on the edge of the bed close to his feet.

“Sí, Nonno, this is Marisol. Gabriel’s daughter. She is here with the key.” Then to me, she says, “This is my grandfather, Paolo Fabrizio.”

“Hello, sir.” And now I have his full attention.

He looks me over carefully, as if he’s scrutinizing every detail of my appearance to determine the truth of my identity. “Sí, you look like your father,” he finally says. “I’m glad you are here now. I had begun to worry I wouldn’t be around to see the day.” He closes his statement with a harsh, wet cough.

“How did you know my father?” I do my best to mimic Giada’s soft tone. Anything louder would feel out of place here.

“We were friends once, a long time ago. I was with the carabinieri—they are like military police. Until Petrov Rosinsky killed my daughter and her husband. He left my grandchildren without parents all because he was angry with me. Your father, he tried to save them, but he ended up saving me. And he was like a son to me. I know it is unusual for someone like me to be friends with a thief, but your father, he was a rare breed among thieves, honorable and courageous. For many years, I tried to get him to give up his criminal ways, to go straight. But he wanted to gather as much information on Petrov Rosinsky as he could before he got out. He wanted to help me right all of Rosinsky’s wrongs, to help the people he had hurt. But Rosinsky got him before he could finish his work.”

“Is that why he left me the key?”

“Sí, he hid his records from Rosinsky, left them with me for safekeeping, so that one day someone could continue his work and take down Rosinsky’s organization.”

“So why didn’t you continue his work?” I ask. It seems like a logical question. If this man has had my father’s records incriminating Petrov all this time, why didn’t he finish the job?

His expression turns sad, and he drops his gaze to his hands in his lap. “I wanted to, truly I did. But I could not. I had lost my daughter and was the only person my grandchildren had left in this world. I could not risk their lives or risk leaving them completely alone. I was selfish, I know, but they were so young and so innocent—” His voice breaks in a fit of hacking coughs. When he finally settles, he adds, “Then I got sick. I’m dying.”

I’ve already guessed as much. “I’m sorry.”

Paolo reaches out a gaunt hand to pat me on my knee. “Don’t feel sorry for me, child. I’ve lived a long life. I’ve known many years and lots of love.” He smiles tenderly at Giada. “My only regret is that I will not be around to see Rosinsky get what he deserves.” He lifts his hand weakly from my knee and points across the room to a heavy oak credenza. “There’s a false panel on the side; the release is on the edge of the foot. What you’re looking for is in that compartment.”

“Thank you,” I tell him and rise from the chair. Giada stands as well, and together we cross the room. She gets to the credenza first and kneels next to it to feel for the release. The entire right side swings open with a dull pop. Inside sits a small wooden chest, no bigger than a shoebox. A metal latch stretches from the lid halfway down the box itself, and on the front is a small keyhole. Just large enough for the key my father hid in my journal?

I slip the key into the hole, and it turns easily. I don’t know what I expect to find inside the box, but what I do find is a neat stack of papers, copies of bank statements, contracts, faxes, handwritten notes, emails, and surveillance photos of Petrov meeting with dangerous-looking men. I lift the stack out of the way, and underneath, the box is filled with pocket-size leather-bound journals, at least fifteen of them. They’re stacked neatly, spine up, and each shows wear around the edges and cracking along the spine—like my father carried them on his person and used them often. I pull one out and flip through the pages, which are yellowed from age.

Every line of every page is filled with my father’s handwriting. Names, dates, and amounts are all listed in hastily drawn columns, and the spaces between are littered with little notes about the information, comments like elderly or five children, life savings and family business. These are records of the wrongs Petrov committed against people, businesses he ruined, lives he ruined. There are death dates and causes, lists of crimes, and more. So much, it would take more than what little time I have left to sort through everything.