Chapter 12 - Tracing the Ghost
Within minutes, the private study was transformed into a high-tech tactical war room.
Marco stood beside a large digital display table, tapping rapidly across a holographic interface that mapped out every financial transaction, shipping manifest, and encrypted communication ping tied to the Moretti syndicate.
“The ink analysis on the parchment confirms it,” Marco reported crisply, projecting a magnified image of the red wax seal onto the screen.
“This isn't a domestic threat. It’s stamped with the crest of Moretti’s private security detail out of Baltimore.”
Damian stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the glowing data points.
“How did Moretti get past our perimeter checks to deliver a letter directly to the gates?” Damian asked, his voice dangerously low.
“He didn't use an external courier,” I said, stepping up beside the table and pointing at a faint smudge on the bottom corner of the envelope.
“Look at the postmark stamp, Marco. It’s smudged with industrial-grade graphite lubricant.”
Marco blinked, zooming in on the smudge.
“Good eye, Emma,” Marco muttered in surprise.
“That specific lubricant is exclusively used on the heavy hydraulic lifts in the estate’s main underground service delivery bay.”
Damian’s head snapped toward Marco.
“We have a rat inside the domestic staff.”
“Not just any rat,” a cold, familiar voice echoed from the doorway.
We all turned to see Arthur Vance walking into the study, holding a digital tablet with a grim expression.
“I just ran a background audit on the new estate logistics coordinator hired three weeks ago—right before the Bellamy House gala,” Arthur continued, tapping his screen.
“His name is Julian Cross, a former lieutenant in Moretti’s Baltimore crew who wiped his criminal record using forged federal papers.”
Damian didn't shout, and he didn't curse; his terrifying calm was far more lethal than any explosion of rage.
“Where is Cross right now?” Damian asked softly.
“He cleared the gates ten minutes ago in a maintenance van, heading toward the abandoned railway yards on the industrial waterfront,” Marco answered, already tapping his earpiece.
“My tactical teams are mobilizing.”
I stepped forward, grabbing my wool coat from the back of the chair.
“I’m coming with you,” I stated, leaving no room for argument.
Damian looked ready to object, but one look at my unyielding expression silenced the words on his lips.
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“Stay close to me, Emma,” Damian commanded, his voice brooking no refusal as he drew his custom-weighted firearm from his shoulder holster.
“If Moretti wants a war, we’ll bring it to his doorstep.”
