Chapter 3 - Secrets in the Ledger
By two in the morning, the mansion was under total lockdown. Heavy iron gates at the perimeter were sealed, and armed men stood stationed every twenty feet along the stone wall.
In the private medical suite on the third floor, Clara was hooked up to a quiet hum of monitors and an IV drip. Her color was slowly returning, her breathing stabilizing into a deep, drug-induced sleep.
Lily was asleep in the adjacent sitting room, curled up on a leather sofa beneath Dante’s heavy cashmere overcoat, her arm still wrapped tightly around her stuffed rabbit.
Dante stood in his study, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows into the rain-slicked gardens. In his hands, he held a thick, worn leather journal that Marco had retrieved from the hidden compartment inside Clara’s small wardrobe.
Marco entered quietly, setting a crystal glass of amber scotch on the heavy oak desk.
“The domestic agency was paid off by the Callahan family out of Boston,” Marco reported softly. “They placed her here under a false name six months ago. But not to spy on you, Boss.”
Dante didn't turn around. “She was hiding.”
“Yes,” Marco said. “Four years ago, after the raid in Montreal where everyone assumed she died in the warehouse fire... she escaped. She was pregnant.”
Dante’s fingers tightened against the leather journal. He finally turned around, his slate-gray eyes fixing on his security chief.
“She brought my daughter into my home as a maid’s child,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. “She worked sixteen-hour shifts scrubbing my floors while I sat upstairs believing I was alone in the world.”
Marco lowered his head. “She was terrified of Callahan, Boss. Arthur Callahan spent four years searching for her because she held the master encryption keys to his family’s offshore accounts. She knew if Callahan found out the child was yours, the kid would become a target in the war.”
Dante walked over to the desk, opened the journal, and looked at the first page.
Pasted inside was a small, grainy sonogram photo dated three years ago, with Clara’s neat handwriting beneath it: Lily Moretti. Born in silence. Loved in secret.
A rare emotion flickered across Dante’s harsh face. He touched the edge of the small photograph with his thumb.
“Who spiked her medication, Marco?” Dante asked smoothly.
“We ran the security footage from the kitchen staff quarters,” Marco replied, his face darkening. “It was the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable. Callahan’s men reached her brother’s family in South Boston two days ago. They threatened to burn his house down if she didn't drop the digitalis compound into Clara’s evening tea.”
Dante picked up his glass of scotch, took a slow, measured sip, and set it down without a sound.
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“Where is Mrs. Gable now?”
“In the basement wine cellar,” Marco said. “Waiting for you.”
