Chapter 5 - THE GHOST ON THE WIRE
The name typed at the bottom of the wire transfer confirmation seemed to burn straight through the parchment paper.
Elena Romano.
Our daughter.
I stumbled backward, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a sharp gasp. The room tilted violently, the warm glow of the hearth suddenly feeling like a freezing gust of wind.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head frantically. “No, that’s impossible. Elena is dead. We buried her in the family plot behind St. Anthony’s. I held your hand when they lowered the casket, Vincent!”
Vincent didn't answer. He stood frozen at his desk, staring down at the paper as if it were venomous. His hands gripped the mahogany edges so hard the wood groaned.
“Arthur,” Vincent’s voice was barely a breath. “Are you telling me this wire came from twelve years ago?”
“No, Vincent,” Arthur said, his voice heavy and tragic. “The wire transfer was executed four days ago. From a private Swiss bank account registered under the name of the Elena Romano Trust.”
“That’s a lie!” I shouted, stepping up to the desk and slamming my palm onto the wood. “Our daughter died of leukemia when she was twenty-two years old! I sat by her hospital bed for six months! I watched her take her last breath! I dressed her in her favorite blue dress for the funeral!”
Arthur looked up at me, his eyes filled with a deep, crushing sorrow. “Margaret… do you remember who handled the hospital paperwork when Elena passed away?”
My mind raced backward through the decades, crashing against the wall of grief that had walled off those terrible months.
“You did, Arthur,” I whispered. “You handled all the legal filings.”
“I handled the filings,” Arthur nodded slowly. “Because your husband was too broken by grief to look at a single piece of paper. But three weeks ago, when Victoria came into my office demanding access to the family trust deeds, she dropped a hint that made my blood run cold.”
Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“She told me that if I didn't help her draft the property transfer documents, someone much higher up in the family would expose my old legal indiscretions from the 1990s. Someone who had been funding Victoria’s offshore accounts from the shadows.”
“Elena,” Vincent said, the name tasting like ash in his mouth.
“Elena,” Arthur confirmed. “She didn't die of leukemia, Vincent. The medical files from twelve years ago were sealed under a federal witness protection directive. Your daughter didn't have cancer. She was targeted by the syndicate families who wanted to cripple your empire without firing a single shot at your docks.”
The horrifying puzzle pieces finally snapped together in my mind, forming a picture so dark and twisted it made my stomach turn.
Our daughter hadn't died in a sterile hospital room surrounded by grieving parents.
She had been spirited away by federal agents to save her life from a syndicate hit squad, forced to fake her own death, forced to abandon her family, forced to watch us mourn over an empty casket for twelve agonizing years.
And somewhere along the way, the sweet, gentle girl we had raised had turned into something else entirely.
Someone bitter. Someone vengeful.
Someone who had spent twelve years plotting the total destruction of the Romano empire from the inside out, using Victoria as a blunt instrument to lock her aging parents away in an asylum.
“She hates us,” I whispered, tears finally breaking free, spilling hot down my cheeks. “Our own flesh and blood hates us so much she tried to have us locked in a madhouse.”
Vincent didn't cry. A mob boss doesn't cry when he realizes he’s been outmaneuvered by a ghost. Instead, a terrifying, lethal stillness settled over his entire body.
He reached into his waistband, pulled out the heavy silver revolver, and checked the cylinder with a sharp, metallic click.
“Where is she, Arthur?” Vincent asked, his voice dropping into a register so cold it froze the air in the room.
Arthur hesitated, swallowing hard. “The wire originated from an IP address in the city. A private penthouse suite downtown overlooking the river.”
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Vincent slid the revolver back into his waistband and buttoned his suit jacket. He looked at me, his dark eyes filled with an unbreakable, fifty-year devotion.
“Get your coat, Margaret,” Vincent said quietly. “We’re going to go find our daughter.”
