Chapter 8 - The Aftermath in the City
The storm that hit Chicago that night was not merely weather; it was a societal earthquake.
By eight o’clock the following morning, news outlets across the nation were broadcasting live from outside the DeLuca estate. The headlines were frantic, wildly contradictory, and utterly sensational:
“FEDERAL RAID ON DELUCA ESTATE FINDS EMPTY VAULTS.” “MAFIA DON JULIAN DELUCA VANISHES INTO LAKE MICHIGAN STORM.” “BUTLER FOUND DEAD IN SUBTERRANEAN BUNKERS; FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED.”
At Northwestern Memorial Hospital, Cassandra Vale sat up in her private room, watching the television screen in silence. She was pale, wearing a simple hospital gown, but her breathing was clear and steady.
The door to her room opened, and Victoria Vance—the formidable attorney who had taken over the legal fallout—stepped inside carrying a sleek leather folder.
“How are you feeling, Cassandra?” Victoria asked, pulling up a chair.
“Like I swallowed broken glass,” Cassandra replied, her voice raspy. She pointed a thin finger at the television screen. “Is it true? Is Julian gone?”
“Julian DeLuca no longer exists,” Victoria stated plainly, opening the folder. “The federal government seized the estate, but they found no evidence of criminal activity, no ledger books, and no weapons. Every company bearing the DeLuca name was legally dissolved at midnight.”
Cassandra looked down at her hands, where her engagement ring usually sat. She had removed it an hour ago, placing it on the bedside table.
“And the poison?” Cassandra asked quietly. “Was it meant for him?”
“It was,” Victoria confirmed. “Thomas Bell attempted to murder Julian to cover up a decade of embezzlement and the murder of Claire Arden four years ago. The poison was pre-dosed in Julian’s glass. You survived only because you took his flute.”
Cassandra closed her eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath. “I thought I was fighting for a man who loved me. But he was living in a graveyard the entire time.”
Victoria reached into her briefcase and pulled out a certified bank document, placing it on Cassandra’s lap.
“Before Julian left, he executed one final transaction,” Victoria said smoothly. “The one million dollar trust fund promised to Lily Bennett was fully funded from an offshore account. Furthermore, Julian transferred five million dollars into a private annuity in your name.”
Cassandra blinked in surprise, looking at the document. “Why?”
“A note was left for you,” Victoria said, handing over a small piece of folded cream stationary.
Cassandra opened the note. Written in Julian’s sharp, precise handwriting were four simple lines:
May you like
Cassandra, You took a bullet meant for me, and for that I owe you a life I can never give back. Take the money, leave the ballet company, and build something that belongs only to you. Do not dance for the crowd anymore. Dance for yourself. — J.
Cassandra held the paper against her chest, a single tear slipping down her cheek. She turned her head toward the window, looking out at the gray Chicago sky, and felt, for the first time in thirty years, a quiet, soaring sense of peace.
