Chapter 11 - The Ghost in the Ledger
My new office sat on the third floor of the Moretti estate, bathed in the cool morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.
The room had previously belonged to Luca’s senior financial consultant, equipped with an executive mahogany desk, leather armchairs, and an encrypted terminal connected directly to the family’s commercial holdings.
A single crystal vase containing fresh white calla lilies sat at the corner of my desk, placed there under Luca’s personal instructions.
My right arm remained supported by the sleek carbon-fiber brace, but Dr. Russo’s pain regimen had reduced the throbbing ache to a manageable, dull hum.
For the first time in eleven months, I wore an elegant charcoal pencil skirt and a cream silk blouse instead of a stiff domestic uniform and an apron.
Yet every time I looked down at my hands, the faint outlines of violet bruising around my knuckles reminded me of the violence that had brought me to this desk.
At nine o'clock, a heavy knock sounded on the heavy oak door.
"Enter," I said, setting down the stylus in my left hand.
Marco walked into the room carrying a stack of red-labeled folders, his tactical gear replaced by a tailored dark suit, though the bulge of his shoulder holster remained unmistakable.
"Good morning, Miss Parker," Marco said with respectful formality.
"Please, Marco, just Grace," I replied with a faint smile.
"Old habits die hard, but Luca gave strict orders that the entire security department answers to your administrative inquiries regarding the Bellini assets," Marco explained, placing the heavy folders in front of me.
"These are the digitized bank records and offshore shell corporations confiscated from Enzo Bellini's private office an hour ago."
"What about Vanessa and Enzo?" I asked, feeling a cold shiver run along my spine at the mention of their names.
"They are currently under armed escort on an armored transport heading toward the private airfield in Gary, Indiana," Marco stated.
"Don Salvatore made sure their passports were revoked, their liquid funds frozen, and their destination restricted to a remote compound in southern Italy where they cannot contact syndicate allies."
"Something doesn't feel right, Marco," I said, opening the top red folder and scanning the ledger lines.
"Enzo Bellini was a brutal man, but he was also notoriously paranoid about losing leverage."
"When I listened to the audio editing timeline in the music room yesterday, Vanessa mentioned someone else."
Marco leaned forward, his brow furrowing. "Who did she mention?"
"She said: 'Once Don Salvatore and the commission hear this, Luca will be facing twenty-five years for Julianna Rossi’s murder unless my father buys off the judge.'"
"We assumed she was talking about Agent Miller or the municipal court," I continued, tapping the printed transaction sheet.
"Look at this transfer from three days ago."
"Seventeen million dollars was moved from Enzo’s primary holding company into an unlisted corporate account registered in the British Virgin Islands."
"That wasn't a bribe for a federal judge."
"That was a down payment to an external mercenary network."
Before Marco could examine the document, Luca stepped into the office, holding two steaming porcelain cups of black espresso.
He wore a crisp navy suit without a tie, looking remarkably energized despite having slept barely two hours since the dawn tribunal.
"You're already dissecting their finances, Grace," Luca said, placing a cup beside my hand and resting his hip against the edge of the desk.
"Luca, Enzo didn't plan to retire to Italy even if their coup failed," I said, turning the monitor toward him.
"He hired an outside contractor to guarantee that if the frame-up collapsed, someone would finish the job on the ground."
Luca’s dark eyes hardened as he stared at the offshore routing code on the screen.
"That routing code doesn't belong to the Bellinis."
"Who does it belong to?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat.
"Don Matteo Cavallaro," Luca murmured, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper.
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"The head of the Detroit syndicate and my father’s oldest enemy."
At that exact moment, the red emergency phone on the credenza behind Luca began to shriek with a piercing, high-pitched alarm.
