Chapter 3 - The Broken Ledger
By noon, the rain had returned to Chicago, washing against the tall arched windows of the estate’s private library.
Lorenzo sat behind his desk, surrounded by leather-bound books and heavy bronze statues. Across from him stood Paul Rossi, the Moretti family’s senior forensic accountant. Paul was a thin, nervous man with wire-rimmed glasses who spent his life staring at shell companies, offshore accounts, and encrypted wire transfers.
"I need you to dig into Marco Vance’s personal accounts," Lorenzo said, his voice flat. "Go back four years."
Paul blinked behind his glasses, taking a step back in surprise. "Marco, sir? Your security chief? He has authorization over all internal security budgets—"
"I didn't ask for his job description, Paul," Lorenzo interrupted softly. "I asked you to audit his accounts. Every wire, every cash deposit, every property holding registered under his name, his brother’s name, or any shell corporation he controls."
Paul swallowed nervously, clutching his leather briefcase to his chest. "If Marco finds out I’m auditing him—"
"If Marco finds out, it will be because you told him," Lorenzo said, leaning forward until his shadow covered the desk. "And if you tell him, Paul, I will personally ensure you spend the rest of your short life underwater in Lake Michigan."
Paul’s face went white. "I'll have the records by midnight, Mr. Moretti."
"Good. Dismissed."
As Paul hurried out of the library, Lorenzo pulled out his phone and made a call to a private investigator in Detroit—a man who worked outside the syndicate's network and owed no allegiance to Marco Vance.
"Lorenzo," the investigator answered on the second ring. "What do you need?"
"Four years ago, Marco Vance told me his brother, Marcus Vance, was murdered in a street fight in Detroit. Find out if there was ever a police report filed under that name. Find out if a body was ever taken to the Wayne County morgue."
"Give me three hours."
Lorenzo hung up. He stood up and walked over to the library window, staring out at the grey expanse of the estate grounds.
Down on the lawn, despite the light drizzle, Emma was running in circles wearing a yellow raincoat, chasing the estate’s resident German Shepherd, who was trotting along beside her with a tennis ball in his mouth. Sophia stood near the patio, watching her daughter with a warm, gentle smile.
Lorenzo watched them.
For three years, his world had consisted of dark rooms, violent men, and the cold, unyielding pursuit of power. He had believed that his life was over when Isabella died, that he was merely a ghost wandering through a empire built on blood.
Yet, as he looked at the little girl in the yellow raincoat, a strange, forgotten ache stirred in his chest.
If his son had lived... he would have been three years old today. He would have been running across that same lawn. He would have been laughing at the same dog.
A knock sounded at the door.
Marco Vance stepped into the library, carrying a tactical radio and a stack of security logs.
"The perimeter check is complete, Boss," Marco said, setting the logs on the desk. "Everything is quiet. The West Side syndicate has agreed to the sit-down on Friday."
Lorenzo turned slowly from the window, keeping his hands tucked into his suit pockets.
"Marco," Lorenzo said casually.
"Yes, Lorenzo?"
"Do you ever think about your brother?"
Marco’s body went rigid for a microsecond—a reaction so subtle that ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have missed it entirely. But Lorenzo had spent his entire life reading the micro-expressions of dangerous men.
Marco cleared his throat, his posture straightening slightly. "Every day, Boss. Marcus was an idiot who got mixed up with the wrong people in Detroit. I wish I could have saved him."
"It’s tough losing family," Lorenzo said smoothly, walking toward his desk. "Especially when you can't protect them."
Marco’s eyes narrowed slightly, searching Lorenzo’s face for any sign of hidden meaning. "Yes, sir. It is."
"Tell me, Marco," Lorenzo continued, sitting down in his leather chair. "Did Marcus ever mention a woman named Sophia before he died?"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Marco’s hand, resting near his belt, twitched slightly. His chest rose and fell in a slow, calculated breath as he processed the question.
"Sophia?" Marco repeated, his tone completely neutral. "No, sir. Marcus had a lot of women. I didn't keep track of their names."
"She works here now," Lorenzo said, tapping his finger against the desk. "She’s the maid who cleans the staff wing. She has a three-year-old daughter named Emma."
Marco smiled—a tight, professional smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Is that so? I didn't know. The household staff is managed by Mrs. Higgins. I don't pay attention to the domestic hires."
"Of course you don't," Lorenzo said softly. "You're a busy man, Marco."
"Is there a problem with her, Boss? If she’s a security risk, I can have her dismissed immediately—"
"No," Lorenzo cut him off sharply. "She stays. She and the child are under my personal protection."
Marco bowed his head. "As you wish, Lorenzo."
He turned and walked out of the library, closing the heavy oak door behind him.
The moment the door latched shut, Lorenzo’s phone buzzed on the desk. It was a text message from his investigator in Detroit:
NO RECORD OF MARCUS VANCE IN WAYNE COUNTY MORGUE. NO POLICE REPORT. MARCUS VANCE PURCHASED A ONE-WAY TICKET TO MIAMI FOUR YEARS AGO. HE IS ALIVE.
Lorenzo stared at the illuminated screen.
May you like
Marco had lied about his brother’s death. He had hidden Marcus’s survival, hidden Sophia’s existence, and hidden the fact that his brother was the father of the child living in the staff quarters of the Moretti estate.
Why? Lorenzo thought, his blood turning to liquid ice. What were you hiding four years ago, Marco?
