Chapter 3 - Footprints in the West Wing
The silence in the foyer was heavier than the thunderstorm outside.
Grace stared at the grainy security footage of the man who was supposed to be in a grave.
Julian Vance had sharp cheekbones, hollow eyes, and the deliberate, balanced posture of a retired soldier.
"He carried the umbrella like a weapon," Roman observed, rewinding the footage three seconds.
"Look at his grip."
The frame zoomed in on the umbrella's handle.
The head of the handle was unscrewed slightly, exposing a hollow interior chamber.
Inside the cylinder rested a dull metallic tube, no wider than an engine spark plug.
"An evidence vault capsule," Walsh said, recognizing the design instantly.
"The department used those in the late nineties for micro-film rolls and digital encrypted jump drives."
"It’s an internal affairs archival capsule."
Grace looked between the two men.
"Why would my father’s dead partner bring that here?"
"And why steal it back in the middle of a fake arrest?"
"Because the fake arrest was the smoke," Roman said coldly.
"And the capsule was the fire."
Roman tapped the intercom button on the wall console.
"Lock down the perimeter."
"Seal all vehicle gates."
"No car leaves this compound until I personally clear it."
The speaker crackled with the voice of his head gatekeeper.
"Understood, Mr. Moretti."
"The outer iron gates are secured."
"Has anyone crossed the perimeter on foot?" Roman asked.
"No, sir."
"Infrared fence sensors are completely clear."
Roman released the button and turned toward Walsh.
"He's still inside this house."
Grace felt a shiver run down the back of her neck.
The Moretti estate was massive, spanning thirty-five rooms, multiple storage wings, and underground service cellars.
"Where would he go?" Walsh asked.
Roman did not hesitate.
"The west wing."
"Why the west wing?" Grace asked.
"That wing was shut down twelve years ago after my father suffered his stroke," Roman explained.
"Nobody goes in there except the maintenance crew once every six months."
"It connects directly to the old private archives my family kept before digital ledgers existed."
"And fourteen years ago," Walsh added quietly, "that was the room David Miller searched during an unauthorized late-night inspection."
Grace looked at her hands.
The reality of her family was crumbling like dry paper.
Her father had walked these exact hallways.
He had breathed this same air, touched these same walls, and perhaps stood right where she was standing now.
"I'm coming with you," Grace said firmly.
Roman looked down at her, his eyes cold and assessing.
"This isn't your business, Grace."
"You are an agency maid."
"They put my name on that warrant!" Grace shot back, her voice ringing clear across the foyer.
"They used my face to distract everyone in this room!"
"My father died because of whatever is in that capsule, and you tell me it's not my business?"
Roman held her gaze for several seconds.
He did not look angry; if anything, a faint flicker of respect crossed his dark eyes.
"Stay behind me," Roman said.
"If I tell you to drop to the floor, you drop."
"Do you understand?"
Grace nodded once.
Roman reached into the hidden cabinet beneath the reception desk and pulled out a sleek black semiautomatic pistol.
He racked the slide with a clean, metallic snap.
Walsh kept his hands in his pockets, his posture calm but alert.
They moved down the long corridor toward the darkened western corridor.
The ambient lighting grew dim as they left the banquet hall behind.
The lively chatter of the dinner guests faded into an eerie, distant murmur.
The west wing smelled of old dust, dry plaster, and forgotten paper.
Sheets of white canvas covered ancient armchairs and marble statues along the hallway.
The parquet wood floor beneath their feet groaned softly under their weight.
Roman raised his left hand, signaling for them to halt.
He pointed toward the floorboards near the baseboard.
Fresh droplets of water glistened against the dry, dusty varnish.
Rainwater from an overcoat.
The tracks led straight toward the heavy double doors of the estate’s private library.
Roman approached the door with his weapon raised at chest height.
He tested the bronze handle with his free hand.
It turned smoothly without resistance.
Roman kicked the door inward with sudden, violent force.
The door slammed against the interior wall stop with a booming echo.
Roman cleared the room in two rapid strides, his pistol sweeping across the shadows.
The room was illuminated only by the faint silver moonlight filtering through tall, arched windows.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, filled with leather-bound legal folios and ledgers.
In the center of the room, standing beside a massive oak partners desk, was the man from the security video.
Julian Vance did not run.
He did not raise a weapon.
He stood with his hands resting calmly on top of the black metal umbrella handle.
He looked older than he had on the security screen.
Deep scars cut across his jawline, and his left shoulder hung slightly lower than his right, the permanent souvenir of an old explosion.
His eyes, however, were sharp as broken glass.
"You took your time, Roman," Julian Vance said.
His voice sounded gravelly, like stones tumbling down a dry riverbed.
Roman kept the front sight of his pistol leveled directly between Vance’s eyes.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't put a bullet through your forehead right now, Vance."
Julian did not flinch.
Instead, his gaze drifted past Roman’s shoulder and landed directly on Grace.
His breath caught in his throat.
"David’s eyes," Julian whispered, his weathered face softening with genuine emotion.
"She has David’s eyes."
Grace stepped out from behind Roman, ignoring the mob boss’s quiet warning growl.
"Who are you?" Grace demanded.
Julian gave a sad, bitter smile.
May you like
"I am the man who failed to keep your father alive, Grace."
"And I am the only reason you haven't been murdered in your sleep."
