Chapter 3 - THE GHOST OF VICTOR VANCE
By Tuesday afternoon, Roman had converted the small guest bedroom of the Pruitt cottage into a command center.
Two satellite communications rigs were mounted on the wooden desk, their red and green lights blinking steadily against the wall. Outside, four additional security vehicles had arrived from Portland, discreetly stationing themselves at key intersections around Port Haven.
Eli Cross stepped into the room, holding a secure encrypted tablet.
“Chief Hayes backed off,” Eli reported, shutting the door behind him. “He called in sick to the department three hours ago and hasn't left his house since. But our communications intercept team picked up an encrypted satellite relay bouncing off a tower in Halifax.”
Roman turned from the window, his expression grim. “Source?”
“It was routed through a holding company called Apex Maritime,” Eli said, sliding the tablet across the desk. “Apex bought three waterfront warehouses in Port Haven through a blind trust four years ago. The signature on the purchase deed is an old alias.”
Roman looked at the screen. The signature read V. V. Vance.
Roman felt his blood turn to liquid ice. “Victor.”
“He didn't die in that warehouse explosion six years ago, boss,” Eli confirmed quietly. “He used the fire to fake his own death, took thirty million dollars from our international accounts, and went deep underground. He’s been operating out of the shadows right here in coastal Maine, using corrupt local officials like Hayes to control the regional smuggling corridors.”
Roman slammed his fist down on the wooden desk, splitting the oak paneling down the middle.
“He took Clara from me,” Roman rasped, his eyes burning with a terrifying rage. “He let her live in fear for six years while he built his shadow network beneath my feet. And now he’s trying to take Mara.”
“Victor knows he can't beat you in a direct military confrontation,” Eli pointed out. “Your forces outnumber his five to one. That’s why he tried to use the state child protection mandate to draw you out into a public arrest scenario. He wants the authorities to pull you away from Mara so he can move in and finish what he started nine years ago.”
A light tap sounded at the open door.
Mara was standing in the doorway holding two plastic cups of apple juice. She looked at the cracked wooden desk, then up at Roman.
“You break a lot of things,” she remarked, walking into the room and setting one cup on the desk.
Eli smiled slightly, nodding to Roman before stepping out into the hallway to leave them alone.
Roman looked down at the tiny plastic cup of juice, then pulled up a wooden chair and sat down so he was at eye level with his daughter.
“Mara,” Roman began softly. “I need to ask you something important.”
Mara took a sip from her juice cup. “Okay.”
“Did your mother... did she ever talk about a man named Victor?”
Mara’s small face grew solemn. She set her cup down and reached into the pocket of her green sweater. She pulled out a small, worn leather-bound notebook with frayed edges and laid it on Roman’s knee.
“Mom kept a diary,” Mara said quietly. “She told me that if anyone ever came looking for the anchor on her bracelet, I was supposed to give them this book.”
Roman’s hands trembled as he picked up the small leather book. He opened the yellowed pages and immediately recognized Clara’s elegant, flowing handwriting.
He flipped toward the final entries, dated six months before her death.
January 12th: The cough is getting worse, but my heart hurts more. I saw a man in a dark coat standing near the fish market today. He thought I didn't see him, but I recognized his limp. It was Victor Vance. He isn't dead. He’s been watching us from the harbor. He knows Mara exists. I’ve hidden the secondary ledger behind the old clock at the church. If Roman ever comes... tell him the harbor isn't safe.
Roman closed the book, holding it tightly against his chest. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, but his jaw remained locked in an expression of absolute, unyielding resolve.
Clara hadn't just survived; she had spent her final years protecting their child, keeping records, and waiting for the day Roman would finally discover the truth.
“Mara,” Roman said softly, putting his arms around her small shoulders and pulling her into a warm, fierce hug. “I promise you... no one is ever going to scare you or your grandmother again.”
May you like
Mara wrapped her arms around his broad neck, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I know,” she whispered. “Because you’re the big man with the scary face. And you’re my dad.”
Roman closed his eyes, holding his daughter tightly as the gray rain began to beat against the windowpanes.
