Chapter 6 - The Architect of Shadows
The autumn wind off Lake Geneva carried the crisp scent of pine and approaching frost, but inside the newly expanded sunroom of our cottage, the air was warm. I sat at the custom oak desk Matteo had commissioned for me, reviewing adoption applications for the rescue center while a small ledger of financial records sat open beside me.
Everything was legal. Everything was transparent. Yet a quiet unease lingered in the back of my mind.
Grant had vanished from Chicago the night he was dragged away, but men like Grant—and syndicates like the ones operating in the shadows of the Moretti estate—did not simply evaporate because a boss threw them off the property. They merely retreated to darker corners to redesign their blueprints.
A heavy, familiar thud sounded against the oak door, followed by a wet nose pushing it open. Bruno ambled in, carrying an old rubber toy in his jaws, dropping it directly onto my bare feet.
“You’re supposed to be supervising the puppies outside, big guy,” I murmured, scratching behind his velvet ears.
Bruno let out a low huff, resting his chin on my knee.
Before I could reach for my coffee cup, the internal estate comms panel on the wall chimed twice—the discreet signal reserved for Matteo or head security. I pressed the receiver.
“Clara,” Leo’s voice came through, uncharacteristically tight. “Are you in the main study or the cottage?”
“The cottage. Why?”
“Lock the doors. Don't let anyone in. The boss is five minutes out from the North Gate, but there’s been a security breach at the perimeter archives.”
My blood ran cold. “What kind of breach?” someone had broken into the historical property records?
“A courier dropped off a package addressed to you personally,” Leo said grimly. “It bypassed the mail room screening because it was marked internal courier. The tech team just ran a low-level diagnostic. It’s not a bomb, Clara. It’s a portfolio.”
“A portfolio of what?”
“Photographs, blueprints, and property titles from fourteen years ago. Specifically, the deeds to your parents' old estate in upstate New York... and documents bearing Grant’s signature transferring ownership three days after your divorce.”
The room seemed to tilt sideways. My parents' home—the quiet Victorian house where I grew up, which I thought had been sold to settle medical debts—had never been sold at all. Grant had stolen it. And someone had just hand-delivered the proof straight to my doorstep.
“I’m coming up to the main house,” I said sharply, untangling myself from Bruno.
“Negative, Clara. Stay put. The boss is pulling in right now.”
The line clicked dead.
May you like
I stared at the comms panel, my fingers trembling. For fourteen years, I had believed my financial ruin during the divorce was my own fault—that my clumsiness with paperwork and my inability to manage adult responsibilities had left me with nothing. Now, looking at Bruno’s amber eyes staring up at me with fierce loyalty, I realized the truth. I hadn't broken my own life. It had been systematically sabotaged by a man who needed me to feel helpless so he could control every inch of my existence.
And someone out there wanted me to know it.
