Chapter 7 - The Ledger of Secrets
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak door of the cottage swung open, and Matteo stepped inside. His black coat was unbuttoned, his face set in lines of hard, unyielding granite. In his hand, he held a thick manila envelope tied with black string.
He didn't say a word. He walked straight across the room, laid the envelope flat on my desk, and pulled out a chair to sit directly opposite me.
“Leo showed me the contents,” Matteo said quietly. His voice wasn't angry; it was terrifyingly calm—the quiet before a hurricane.
I reached out with shaking fingers and untied the string. Inside lay a certified copy of a property deed dated twelve years ago, bearing my signature—a signature I had never written. Below it was a bank statement showing a massive wire transfer into an account registered under Grant’s name, routed through an offshore shell corporation with ties to the Russo family.
Bianca Russo. Even in exile, her fingerprints were all over this.
“He didn't just manipulate our marriage,” I whispered, staring at the fraudulent signature on the yellowed paper. “He stole everything my parents left me. Every heirloom. Every brick of that house.”
Matteo reached across the desk, covering my cold fingers with his warm, heavy hand. “He used your fear against you, Clara. He made you believe you couldn't survive without him so you would never look too closely at the paperwork.”
“And whoever sent this,” I looked up, meeting his dark eyes, “wants me to know that Grant wasn't operating alone. They want me to realize how deep the rot goes inside this city.”
“They wanted to provoke you,” Matteo corrected softly. “They thought you would panic, run out into the night, and make a mistake that would force my hand.” He leaned in closer, his jaw tightening. “They don't understand who they are dealing with. Neither of us do.”
“What do you mean?”
“This envelope didn't come from a random courier,” Matteo said, sliding a small digital tablet across the desk. On the screen was a still frame from our estate security cameras at the North Gate. A sleek black town car with tinted windows had paused for three seconds. A gloved hand had tossed the package over the low security hedge before speeding away into the mist. “The license plate is registered to a holding company controlled by Victor Vance.”
My breath caught. Victor Vance was the oldest, most ruthless syndicate elder in the Chicago underground—a man older than Matteo, who viewed the Moretti family's modernization of the city as an existential threat.
“Vance is testing us,” I realized aloud. “He’s using my past to see if you’ll lose control—if you’ll overextend your security to protect me and leave your supply lines vulnerable.”
Matteo’s lips curved into a dangerous, predatory smile. For a second, he didn't look like the man who shared reheated soup in my cottage; he looked like the undisputed king of a ruthless underworld.
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“Vance thinks this is a game of chess,” Matteo murmured, standing up slowly. “He thinks women like Bianca and cowards like Grant are pieces he can sacrifice to rattle my cage.” He placed both hands on the edge of my desk, leaning down until our eyes were level. “He’s about to find out that you aren't a piece on the board, Clara. You’re the reason the board exists.”
Bruno rose from the floor, letting out a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the floorboards, as if echoing his master's vow.
