Chapter 7 - Secrets in the Family Ledger
The midnight hours in the Moretti archives smelled of aging parchment, dust, and old ink.
Claire sat beneath the harsh glow of a brass desk lamp, turning the crisp, yellowed pages of a handwritten financial ledger dated from twenty-six years ago.
Nico stood behind her chair, his broad shoulders casting a protective shadow over the desk as he watched her trace her finger along a column of signatures.
“Look here,” Claire whispered, pointing to a signature at the bottom of the asset transfer form.
“This isn't Marcus’s handwriting.”
Nico leaned in closer, his cheek brushing lightly against her hair as he focused on the looping ink strokes.
“That’s an authorized secondary seal,” Nico muttered, his jaw tightening.
“Richard Hale’s corporate stamp.”
“He didn’t just buy into our shipping routes after the accident,” Claire said, looking up into Nico’s dark eyes.
“He engineered the entire takeover by manufacturing the crisis that forced my mother into hiding.”
“Which means Richard knows something else we don't,” Nico added, his hand resting reassuringly on the back of her chair.
“If he thinks eliminating you will secure his monopoly over the ports, he’s going to make a move before the board reconvenes tomorrow morning.”
“Let him try,” Claire replied, a cold, unfamiliar resolve settling deep within her bones.
She wasn't the invisible girl anymore; she was a Moretti, and she was done running from shadows.
Suddenly, the harsh chime of the private study phone cut through the silence of the archive room.
Nico reached across the desk and snatched the receiver on the second ring.
“Speak,” Nico ordered.
A heavy, ragged breath echoed from the other end of the line before a distorted voice whispered a single sentence that froze the blood in their veins.
“If you want to know why your mother’s grave is empty, check the coordinates of the northern lighthouse before dawn.”
The line clicked dead instantly.
Nico slammed the phone down onto its cradle, his face turning into a mask of pure fury.
“That call didn’t come from inside the mansion,” Nico said, his voice dropping to a lethal register.
“It was routed through a proxy server registered to Richard Hale’s private security firm.”
“He’s drawing us out,” Claire said, standing up from the desk.
“He wants us to leave the estate so his mercenaries can finish what they started twenty-six years ago.”
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“Then we give him exactly what he wants,” Nico stated, drawing his sidearm and checking the magazine with practiced efficiency.
“We walk right into his trap.”
