Chapter 7 - The Inheritance of Blood
The morning paper didn't mention Salvatore Moretti’s disappearance. In New York, men like Moretti simply vanished into the financial ether—reported missing, rumored to have fled to South America with embezzled funds, or quietly written off by the underworld as a bad investment.
By noon, the final transfer of Moretti’s shipping empire into the Valenti portfolio was complete.
I sat in my second-floor study, reviewing the digital manifests of the Port Elizabeth terminals, when Marcus knocked twice and pushed the door open.
"Boss," Marcus said, holding a thick manila envelope sealed with red wax. "This was dropped off at the front gate by a courier who didn't wait to be questioned. Security scanned it for explosives—it’s clean."
"What is it?" I asked, looking up from my monitor.
"It’s from the archives of the old Chicago police precinct where our parents' case was filed back in '99," Marcus said, placing the envelope on my desk. "The detective who originally handled the crash retired last year. He found a box in his attic that never made it into the permanent state database."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I reached out, tearing open the red wax seal with my bare fingers.
Inside were three items:
An old polaroid photograph of a six-year-old Elena sitting on the bumper of our mother's burnt-out sedan, clutching a stuffed rabbit.
A certified copy of our mother’s last will and testament, hidden inside a false-bottom drawer at her attorney's office.
A typewritten letter addressed to me, dated two days before the car crash.
I unfolded the letter, my eyes scanning the faded ink:
Dante,
If you are reading this, it means I was right to be afraid. Arthur Vance and his associates have been trying to force me to sign over the family’s maritime deeds for months. They know about the offshore accounts, and they know I’m protecting your sister's trust fund. If anything happens to us tonight, do not trust the police. Find the ledger in the floorboards of the Chicago house. Trust no one.
— Mother.
I stared at the letter, the blood roaring in my ears.
Arthur Vance.
Not just a corrupt banker. Not just a society lawyer. The man who had financed the hit squad that killed my mother and tried to erase our family twenty-two years ago.
And Arthur Vance was currently sitting on the board of directors for the Manhattan Port Authority—a man I had shaken hands with at charity galas and traded pleasantries with at country clubs for the past decade.
"Marcus," I said, my voice dropping into a register so cold the air in the room seemed to frost over.
"Boss?" Marcus straightened up, sensing the shift in my posture.
"Pull up Arthur Vance’s current schedule."
"He’s speaking at the annual maritime logistics symposium at the Waldorf Astoria tonight at 8:00 PM," Marcus replied instantly, his tactical mind kicking into gear. "Shall I prep the team?"
May you like
I stood up, buttoning my suit jacket with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
"Prep the team," I said, my eyes fixed on the photograph of my little sister sitting on the bumper of that ruined car. "And tell Arthur Vance his audit is finally ready."
