CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 107
"Did your dad ever tell you how deep down that rabbit hole goes?"
Arizen's tone was so low it was barely audible, but it sliced through the quiet like a knife. We stood in the corner of the journalism archives room, the dusty odor of ambition and dust hanging thick over us. My dad's documents were spread out in front of us like an autopsy—every page a possible clue, a smudge he'd left behind for me to find.
I looked at her, trying to smile. "If he did, I wasn't noticing. I was too upset being twelve and mad at him for not coming to my piano recital."
She smirked, but it faded fast. Her eyes drifted down to the grainy photo we’d found in the corner of a folder labeled Zacks Family — 1997. It wasn’t Tony. It was someone who looked like him. Older. Harder. Wearing a football jacket and holding a cigar with blood-slicked knuckles.
“M. Zacks: assault charge dropped – Sept. 1997.” Scribbled in my father’s writing at the bottom.
I ran my finger over the name. "Tony's dad?"
"Or uncle," replied Arizen. "Either one, someone wanted to bury it. Hard.
We started with the names we could read. They were all blurred, ripped, or smeared, but one was distinguishable: Lennox Dante. I remembered that name from my dad's voicemail tapes—his voice had a rasp like it had been scraped raw by a thousand cigarettes and lies. He ran underground sports rings in the early 2000s. If the gossip is true, he once fixed half a season for an Ivy League team.
Reaching him involved pulling strings, which involved calling someone I despised: Tony.
I sent him a text.
> Me: Need to speak. Don't ignore this. It's regarding your family.
The response arrived in five minutes.
> Tony: Basement. Field House. 30 minutes. Don't bring your shadow.
Arizen raised her eyebrows when I showed her.
"You sure about that?"
"No."
"You're going anyway."
"Obviously."
\---
The Field House basement was always rank with sweat and mildew. Cold and still except for the occasional hum of dusty vending machines still plugged into a long-abandoned circuit. I spotted Tony slumped against a locker, head down, hands rammed into his pockets, like the darkness was his.
He looked up when I came in. His eyes were guarded—hurt, maybe. But also sharp. Always sharp.
"You'd better not be wasting my time," he said to me.
I held up the photo. "Do you know him?"
Tony's eyes landed on it—and his face froze. As if he'd caught sight of a ghost.
"Where did you get that?" His voice was menacing.
"My dad's archives."
He pulled it from my hand, turning it over slowly in his own. "That's my uncle. Marcus Zacks. No one talks about him. Not even in a whisper."
"Why not?"
Tony had not answered right away. When he did, his voice was hoarse. "He had something in the past—something dirty. My dad threatened me if I ever said his name, I'd be gone from the house. Gone from the family."
"Then your uncle was on film from your games," I shot back.
He flinched.
I inched closer. "This was not some family scandal. My dad was looking into it. There's something gigantic here, Tony. Something greater than you. Something greater than what I did."
He barked a laugh. "You're still attempting to make this about redemption?"
"No," I breathed. "I'm trying to understand the truth.".
Tony stared at me for what felt like forever. "You want a truth? Alright. Marcus was at my games because he owned them. Not just the plays. The bets. The odds. He was fixing outcomes, manipulating people like me and everyone else like pawns. And when I got too close, they made sure someone like you got brought in as the fall guy."
There was quiet between us.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"For which part?" he demanded, his tone unyielding.
"All of it."
\---
It was as though I had silenced him, sitting frozen in stunned silence as I laid out the proof. The pictures, the names, Tony's uncle, the fixed games. Her fingers flew across her keyboard, drawing connections I hadn't even considered.
"This Lennox character? Still alive. Barely. But guess what—he got arrested last year. Not for gambling. Money laundering. Through a front business."
"What firm?"
She turned the laptop toward me.
Z3 Holdings.
I stared. Z3. Zacks 3?
Arizen nodded slowly. "Tony. Thatcher. Wells. The three golden boys."
"You think their fathers are still in the game?"
She didn't respond. But we both knew the answer.
\---
We tried to reach Lennox Dante, but his lawyer wouldn't let anyone even a few feet near him. The guy was home-bound in New Jersey wearing a bracelet and a guard with a gun. We meant nothing to him.
But Arizen did have another idea: Thatcher's hospital accident.
"It wasn't accidental," she said. "That man may have been sending a message. Or. cleaning up loose ends."
I swallowed. "You think someone attacked Thatcher?
"Someone did not want him talking, I believe."
\---
We went back to the hospital the next day. I told the nurse that I was family—cousin, girlfriend of cousin, whatever—that worked and Arizen created a distraction by "accidentally" knocking over a biohazard bin on the receptionist's foot.
I found Thatcher half-asleep, hooked up to machines. Pale. Bandaged.
His eyes flickered open the minute I walked in.
"You," he rasped.
"I'm not here to fight," I said to him. "I need answers."
He looked at me with pure hatred. "You don't get to want anything."
"You were going to talk to Tony. You were going to say something. And someone made sure you couldn't."
He didn't respond.
"I think your family heritage is bleeding out," I panted. "And if you don't help end it, you're next."
He blinked. His lips moved. "Not my family," he said.
"What?"
He looked directly into my eyes. "His. Tony's. It was all about him."
Then the screen beeped repeatedly, and a nurse led me out.
\---
It waited outside the room. Arizen was standing with eyes open in terror.
"There's a man standing watch over the wing," she told me. "Not a doctor. Not a nurse. Military buzzcut. Tails every single one of us. He's not there to check on Thatcher's well-being."
We fled.
\---
Later that night, I went up to the roof. The wind was chilled. The city lights stretched out like fireflies on a velvet sea.
Tony was already there. Standing against the railing. Like he knew I'd come.
"You saw him?" he asked.
I nodded. "He said it wasn't his family. That it was yours."
Tony's eyes closed.
"I think someone's still pulling strings," I said. "I think your uncle's ghost never actually died."
"I know," he breathed.
I looked at him.
"You're going to continue, aren't you?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You'll hurt yourself."
"Perhaps. But worse than when I left."
Tony looked at me with something less than anger. And less than love. Something in between. "Then I'll come with you."
"What?"
He stepped closer. "This story doesn't belong to you anymore."
I remained silent. I allowed the wind to carry our silence, and the past burn behind our eyes.