Chapter 3 - The Financial TrailBy dawn, the snowstorm had passed, leaving the estate wrapped in a blinding sheet of white light.
The study had been converted into an intelligence hub. Spread across the massive oak desk were bank ledgers, shell company filings, and shipping manifests spanning two decades.
I sat behind the desk while Claire stood beside me, sipping black coffee and cross-referencing names from my father's personal address book with the corporate filings of Moretti Logistics.
"Here," Claire pointed a slender finger at a line in an offshore registry from the Cayman Islands. "This account—Aegis Management Ltd.—was registered six days before your father's crash."
I leaned in, examining the digital document on my screen. "The director listed is a proxy firm, but look at the primary beneficiary's tax ID number."
I typed the sequence into my private database. A name popped up instantly.
Margaret Sloan.
My estate manager. The woman who had managed this mansion for thirty years. The woman who had brought Claire into my house.
"Margaret?" Claire gasped, holding her hand over her mouth. "No... that can't be right. Margaret is so sweet. She gave Owen a teddy bear yesterday!"
"In my world, sweetness is a currency used to buy compliance," I said, my voice hardening. "Margaret wasn't just managing the house. She was monitoring me. Frank paid her through Aegis Management to make sure I never looked into those archive boxes."
"Then why did she bring the boxes out last week?" Claire asked, her sharp mind immediately finding the flaw in the logic.
I paused, realizing she was right. "Unless... Margaret didn't bring them out. My father's old attorney died last month. His estate released his private records to the executor of his will—which happened to be sent to this house. Margaret tried to intercept the delivery, but she didn't get to the boxes in time because..."
"Because I was dusting the lower archive shelves," Claire finished my sentence, her eyes wide. "She didn't know I would drop the folder."
"Precisely," I said.
Before we could analyze the paper trail further, the study door opened.
Margaret walked in, carrying a silver tray with fresh tea and toast. Her silver hair was neatly pinned, her expression as serene and grandmotherly as always.
"Good morning, Mr. Moretti," Margaret said warmly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk. "Claire, dear, I brought some milk for little Owen. He's playing in the sunroom with the guards."
I looked at Margaret—really looked at her—for the first time in years. I saw the slight tremor in her hands, the way her eyes darted briefly toward the laptop screen before retreating to the silver tray.
"Margaret," I said casually, leaning back in my chair. "Do you remember the night my father died?"
Margaret’s hands froze on the silver handles of the tray. "Of course, Adrian. It was a tragic night. We were all heartbroken."
"Where were you at 8:00 p.m. that evening?"
"I... I was here, at the house, preparing the guest rooms for the weekend," she said, her voice wavering slightly.
"That's interesting," I said, turning the laptop screen toward her. "Because according to the toll booth logs from the Tri-State Tollway, your personal vehicle passed through the exit nearest the mechanic's shop where my father's car was serviced... at 7:45 p.m."
Margaret went completely pale. The silver tray slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor.
"Adrian... please," she whispered, taking a step back. "Frank told me... he said it was just going to be a small mechanical issue to scare your father! He said he just wanted to delay him from attending the board meeting!"
"He cut his brake lines, Margaret!" I roared, my hand slamming onto the desk so hard the tea cups rattled. "He killed my father and paralyzed me!"
"I didn't know!" Margaret wept, covering her face with her hands. "Frank threatened my family! He said if I ever said a word, he would destroy my children! I had no choice!"
"We always have a choice," Claire said quietly from beside me, her voice ringing with a cold, absolute conviction that surprised even me. "You chose to take his money for twenty-two years while watching him blame himself for his father's death."
Margaret looked at Claire, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. "You don't understand how dangerous Frank is, child..."
"I understand cowardice," Claire replied coldly.
I took a deep breath, forcing my heart rate back down to a cold, calculated level.
"Marcus!" I called out.
The heavy door opened, and Marcus stepped into the room.
"Take Margaret to the guest quarters in the basement," I commanded. "Strip her of her phone and any communication devices. She doesn't leave this estate until Frank Moretti is in handcuffs or a grave."
"Adrian, please!" Margaret sobbed as Marcus took her by the arm and led her away. "Frank knows you're looking! He's calling an emergency meeting of the Commission tonight at the Grand Park Hotel! He's going to strip you of your leadership!"
The heavy door closed, leaving the room silent once again.
I looked at Claire. She was leaning against the edge of the desk, her breathing shallow, but her eyes fixed on me with unwavering trust.
"An emergency meeting of the Commission," I murmured, a cold smile forming on my lips. "Frank wants to strip me of my title in front of every boss in Chicago."
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"What are you going to do?" Claire asked.
"I'm going to give him the meeting he wants," I said, pulling a encrypted flash drive from my desk drawer. "And you, Claire... are going to help me deliver the verdict."
