Chapter 4 - THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed midnight as Vincent and I sat in our private study, finishing a quiet cup of coffee.
The house was finally still. The storm outside had passed, leaving behind a cold, crisp Chicago air that rattled the windowpanes of our lakeside study.
I sat by the hearth, watching the orange flames lick at the dry birch logs, feeling the comforting warmth of the fire chase away the chill of the evening.
Vincent was at his mahogany desk, systematically going through a stack of legal files Arthur had left behind regarding V.H. Holdings and Victoria’s corporate shell companies.
“She was thorough,” Vincent muttered, flipping a page covered in dense financial jargon. “She had shell companies set up in the Cayman Islands, Delaware, and Panama. If Arthur hadn't intercepted that transfer yesterday, by Monday morning half of our commercial properties would have been untraceable.”
“She learned from the best,” I murmured, taking a sip of my coffee. “She spent seven years studying how you moved money through the South Side operations before you retired.”
Vincent looked up, a wry smile touching his lips. “Flatterer.”
Suddenly, a sharp, urgent rapping echoed from the front entryway.
Three firm knocks. Followed by a pause. Then two more.
Vincent and I exchanged a quick, knowing glance. That wasn't a guest. That wasn't the police.
That was a Romano signal.
Vincent drew the heavy silver revolver he kept hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk, slipping it smoothly into his waistband. He motioned for me to stay by the hearth as he walked silently across the Oriental rug toward the double doors of the study.
He pulled the doors open just an inch, peering out into the dimly lit hallway.
A moment later, he opened the doors wide.
Standing in the foyer, dripping wet from the midnight rain, wasn't an assassin or an associate.
It was Arthur Bennett.
Our family attorney looked disheveled. His silver hair was plastered to his forehead, his heavy trench coat soaked through, and his briefcase gripped so tightly his knuckles were stark white.
“Arthur?” Vincent lowered his hand from his waistband, frowning deeply. “What in God’s name are you doing here at midnight? Is it Victoria?”
“It’s not Victoria,” Arthur panted, stepping inside and shaking the rain off his coat onto the marble floor. He looked around the empty hallway as if he expected someone to jump out of the shadows. “Lock the doors, Vincent. Bolt them.”
Alarm bells started ringing in my head. Arthur Bennett had represented us through mob wars, federal indictments, and corporate takeovers for thirty-eight years. I had never once seen him lose his composure.
Vincent bolted the heavy oak doors and ushered Arthur quickly into the study, pushing him into a comfortable leather armchair near the fire. I poured a fresh cup of black coffee and handed it to him.
Arthur took it with shaking hands, taking a desperate swallow.
“Arthur, talk to me,” Vincent demanded, standing over him. “What happened?”
“I went back to my office after leaving the estate tonight,” Arthur said, his voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to double-check the asset seizure files for the prosecutor before Monday morning.”
He set the coffee cup down on the side table with a sharp clatter.
“When I opened the secure server room in the basement of my firm, I found something that wasn't in Victoria’s files.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What kind of thing?”
Arthur reached into the wet pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a heavy, manila envelope sealed with red wax. He laid it flat on Vincent’s desk.
“I thought Victoria was the architect of this whole scheme,” Arthur said, looking up at us with eyes full of a terrifying realization. “I thought she was just an ambitious, greedy young woman trying to steal an empire.”
“And she wasn't?” Vincent asked, his brow furrowing.
“She was a pawn,” Arthur whispered.
I stood up from the hearth, walking slowly toward the desk. “Who pulled the strings, Arthur?”
Arthur pointed a trembling finger at the sealed manila envelope.
“Open it,” he said. “It’s a wire transfer confirmation dated four days ago. Generated from an overseas account that doesn't belong to Victoria.”
Vincent stepped forward, broke the red wax seal with his thumb, and slid the heavy parchment document out of the envelope.
He read the first line.
Then the second line.
And the color drained entirely from my husband's face—a man who hadn't flinched when a hitman walked into his restaurant forty years ago.
“Vincent?” I whispered, my hand gripping his arm. “Who sent the wire?”
Vincent looked up at me, his dark eyes wide with a shock so profound it stole his breath.
“It wasn't Victoria,” Vincent choked out. “And it wasn't Daniel.”
He turned the document around so I could see the name at the bottom of the wire transfer authorization.
May you like
My breath caught in my throat. The room spun.
Because the name on the wire transfer—authorizing a five-million-dollar payout to disbarred Dr. Nathan Vance for faking our medical incapacity—belonged to someone we had buried twelve years ago.
