Chapter 4 - THE SHADOW OF VITELLI LOGISTICS
The revelation hung in the air like a poisoned cloud.
If Alina never made it to St.
Margaret’s six years ago,
then where was she.
And who was the man who brought my fourteen-month-old daughter to the orphanage.
Get me the traffic cameras from the West Side on November fourteenth,
six years ago,
I ordered,
slamming my fist onto the mahogany desk.
Marco,
the city archives purge traffic footage after five years,
Matteo said,
clutching the edge of a leather armchair.
I don't care if you have to hack into the Department of Transportation’s backup mainframes in Washington,
I want that footage by midnight,
I snarled.
Nico stepped into the study,
holding a heavy encrypted laptop.
Boss,
you're going to want to see this right now.
What is it,
I demanded.
We ran the financial trail on Meridian Holdings,
Nico said,
tapping the keyboard.
The trust funding St.
Margaret’s wasn't just fed by your private accounts.
For the last three years,
someone else was depositing fifty thousand dollars a month into that exact same trust.
Whose account,
Matteo asked,
stepping closer.
Not mine,
Nico said.
It belongs to Viktor Vance.
The name hit the room like a physical blow.
Viktor Vance.
The head of the Bratva’s Chicago faction.
My bitterest rival in the shipping terminals,
the man I had pushed out of the port authority four years ago.
The man who had supposedly retired to Zurich.
Vance has been paying for my daughter’s orphanage stay,
I whispered,
the puzzle pieces jaggedly slicing my mind together.
He didn't just know where she was.
He was holding a leash on her.
He was using her as an insurance policy against me.
All these years,
I thought my family was hiding from me because of my own sins,
I said,
my chest tightening with a suffocating rage.
But Vance snatched Alina.
Vance orchestrated the entire disappearance.
And he used Matteo’s infrastructure to do it.
No,
Matteo shook his head frantically,
stepping back.
Marco,
I swear to God I didn't know Vance was involved!
I set up Meridian as a blind trust,
anyone could have funneled money into it if they had the routing keys!
Whom did you give the routing keys to,
Matteo,
I asked,
walking slowly toward him.
Whom did you trust with my family's financial lifeline.
Matteo swallowed hard,
his throat dry.
Marcus Thorne,
he whispered.
My chief legal counsel.
The man who managed our corporate mergers.
The man who had a desk three doors down from mine for fifteen years.
Call Thorne,
I ordered Nico.
Tell him we have an emergency board meeting at midnight.
Nico pulled out his phone,
dialed the number,
and put it on speaker.
The phone rang four times.
Then it went straight to voicemail.
He’s not answering,
Boss.
Check his penthouse,
I ordered.
Check his office.
Check his private airstrip in O'Hare.
May you like
Marcus Thorne just realized his game is over.
And rats always try to run before the ship goes down.
