The screen lit up in the dim room.

It showed a single incoming call.

The caller ID read: Tony.

“Look at his face,” I said, tapping the plastic sleeve.

Victor squinted, his eyes watering from the pain in his side.

“Michael,” he whispered. “He was always the optimist.”

“He was also cautious,” I said. “He kept records.”

“What kind of records?” Victor asked, his voice cracking.

“The kind that proved Tony was skimming from the dock unions,” I said.

“Tony found out.”

“And he had Michael killed before those records could reach the federal prosecutor.”

Victor’s grip on his shirt tightened, turning his knuckles white.

“But Marcus…” he started.

“Tony took Marcus in after the funeral,” I said.

“He played the grieving uncle.”

“He told the boy that you were the one who ordered the hit because Michael wanted to go legitimate.”

“He told him you couldn’t risk losing the family business.”

Victor shook his head slowly, a grimace of pure agony crossing his face.

“The boy has hated me for ten years because of a lie,” he whispered.

“A lie designed to make him your executioner,” I said.