Chapter 9 - The Unfinished Past
The silence in the penthouse stretched for a long, profound moment, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic far below.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm of pure, unadulterated joy warring with the ghost of every tear I had shed in Zurich. For three years, I had dreamed of this exact moment—had fantasized about the day Dante would finally drop his armor and ask me to stand by his side in the light.
And now, with the ring resting in the palm of his hand and his gray eyes searching my face with raw vulnerability, the answer should have been simple.
Instead, a quiet, nagging memory pulled at the back of my mind.
“Dante,” I whispered softly, my hands coming down to rest lightly on his broad shoulders, urging him to stand up.
He rose, his expression shifting from hopeful anticipation to immediate concern as he read the hesitation in my eyes.
“What is it?” he asked, his hands sliding down to grip mine. “Is it Victoria? The federal case? I told you, my legal team—"
“It’s not the legal case,” I interrupted, shaking my head slowly. I stepped back, breaking our physical contact just enough to catch my breath. “It’s what Victoria said before she got on that train. About my father.”
Dante frowned, his brow furrowing. “Arthur admitted that Lawrence Carter ran the Outfit’s financial ledgers for thirty years. What else is there?”
“That’s just it,” I said, pacing toward the window where the pale winter sun struggled through the clouds. “Think about it, Dante. My father was a mild-mannered history professor who supposedly spent his weekends laundering dirty money for the most ruthless syndicate in the Midwest. But when he ‘retired,’ he left behind millions in hidden assets scattered across five different international trusts.”
“Your father was meticulous,” Dante said defensively. “He spent decades skimming from the top while keeping the Outfit afloat. That’s how syndicates operate.”
“No,” I turned back to face him, my eyes sharp. “That’s how criminals operate. But my father didn't live like a criminal. We grew up comfortable, yes, but we didn't live in luxury. He drove a ten-year-old sedan. He wore patched sweaters. He planted tomatoes in the backyard with his own hands.”
Dante went quiet, his analytical mind instantly catching up to the anomaly.
“If he had access to millions in syndicate funds,” I continued, crossing my arms over my chest, “where did the money actually go, Dante? Because according to Arthur’s confession, only half of the missing ledger accounts were recovered from the downtown office. The rest of the funds weren't laundered through the Outfit at all.”
“They were moved somewhere else,” Dante finished, his voice dropping into a dangerous, focused register. “Somewhere personal.”
“Somewhere tied to the Carter family history,” I added.
Before Dante could answer, my phone on the coffee table buzzed sharply.
It wasn't an unknown number this time.
It was a local correctional facility ID, accompanied by a brief voicemail notification.
Caller ID: Federal Detention Center - Chicago.Sender: Victoria Carter.
Dante and I exchanged a single, electrified look.
“Play it,” Dante said quietly, stepping closer.
I hit speakerphone. Victoria’s voice crackled through the small speaker, tinny and exhausted, but carrying a chilling clarity that made my blood run cold.
“Elena. If you’re listening to this, it means Dante hasn't told you the truth about why father really kept those ledgers hidden in the first place. He wasn't hiding money from the Outfit, Elena. He was hiding the truth about what happened to our mother thirty years ago. Check the false bottom of father’s old desk in the estate study. You’ll find out who your real family is.”
May you like
The voicemail ended with a sharp click.
The room fell into absolute silence.
