Chapter 3 - The Vintage Ticket
I stared at the heavy blue cardstock resting on the marble counter.
Montreal.
Victoria wasn’t a panicked socialite caught in a lie; she was an apex predator executing the final stage of a hostile takeover. She had used my engagement party as a smokescreen, using a poisoned glass of water to create chaos while my operations manager, Harold Kent, forged my signature on the family trust documents.
And now, she was leaving with the nephew I never knew existed.
“Julian, I’m sorry,” Michael wept, his face buried in his hands. “I should have come to you. But if she released that police report… it would destroy Dad’s legacy. It would destroy the company.”
“She doesn’t have a police report,” I said, my voice eerily calm as the shock hardened into pure, tactical clarity. “If our father had cut those brake lines, he would have destroyed the evidence. He wouldn’t have left a paper trail for a grifter to find seven years later. She fabricated it to control you.”
Michael looked up, his red eyes wide. “Fabricated?”
“Victoria plays on fear,” I said, picking up the train ticket and sliding it into my inner jacket pocket. “She finds the crack in your armor and drives a wedge into it until you surrender. I’m going to make sure she never hurts this family again.”
I turned on my heel and headed for the elevator.
“Where are you going?” Michael called out.
“To find Harold Kent,” I replied as the doors slid shut.
As I drove back toward the city limits, I pulled out my phone and dialed Daniel, my security chief. He answered on the first ring.
“Boss. The police just finished interviewing the catering staff. They ruled Allison’s collapse an allergic reaction to the seafood appetizers. Victoria pushed the narrative hard.”
“I don’t care about the police right now,” I said, gripping the steering wheel. “Did you trace Harold’s service vehicle?”
“Yes,” Daniel replied, his tone shifting to pure professionalism. “The GPS tracker pinged about twenty minutes ago. He’s parked at an old motel out by the interstate. The Starlight Inn.”
“Meet me there in ten minutes. And Daniel? Bring your piece.”
The Starlight Inn was a decaying relic of the 1980s, its neon sign flickering violently in the freezing wind. I pulled the Aston Martin into the dark, pothole-riddled lot, parking next to my family’s black service SUV.
Daniel was already waiting in the shadows near Room 12. He was a former Marine, built like a bank vault, and fiercely loyal to the Ricci family.
“He’s inside,” Daniel whispered as I approached. “The lights are on. Should I kick it?”
“No,” I said. “I want him to open it.”
I stepped up to the chipped green door and knocked heavily. Three sharp raps.
A moment later, I heard the deadbolt slide back. The door cracked open, and Harold Kent peered out. He was a balding man in his late fifties, usually immaculately dressed in a suit, but tonight he was wearing a rumpled sweater, sweat beading on his forehead.
When he saw me, the blood drained entirely from his face. He tried to slam the door, but Daniel’s heavy combat boot shot forward, catching the frame.
I pushed the door open violently, sending Harold stumbling backward into the cheap motel room.
“Mr. Ricci,” Harold stammered, raising his hands defensively. “I can explain.”
“You forged my signature on the irrevocable trust documents while my fiancée poisoned a maid,” I said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind Daniel. “Your explanation better be the best story I’ve ever heard.”
Harold backed into the motel’s small, laminate dresser. “She made me do it. She told me if I didn’t push the paperwork through tonight, she was going to expose what I did in the accounting department.”
“You’ve been stealing from me, too?” I asked, feeling a bitter laugh rise in my throat. I was surrounded by thieves.
“Just a little,” Harold whimpered. “Just enough to pay for my wife’s treatments. But Victoria… she isn’t just a con artist, Julian. You don’t understand who she works for.”
“I don’t care who she works for. I want to know where the boy is.”
Harold blinked, completely thrown off guard. “The boy?”
“My nephew,” I growled, stepping into his personal space, letting my height and my anger dominate the cramped room. “The boy from St. Anne’s. Where is she keeping him?”
Harold shook his head frantically. “She doesn’t have him! The boy isn’t at St. Anne’s anymore. He hasn’t been there for two weeks.”
That was the reversal I hadn’t seen coming. If Victoria didn’t have the child, why was she fleeing to Montreal?
“Then where is he?” I demanded.
Harold reached a trembling hand into his pocket. I tensed, and Daniel’s hand dropped to his holster, but Harold only pulled out a small, wrinkled piece of paper. He handed it to me.
It was a child’s drawing. Done in cheap, vibrant crayons.
May you like
It depicted a large, grey building with a cross on top. But next to the building, the child had drawn a very specific car. A black Aston Martin. And standing next to the car was a tall man in a dark suit.
“The boy drew this yesterday,” Harold whispered. “He’s not hidden away, Julian. He’s been right under your nose the entire time.”
