Chapter 2 - The Valenti Ledger
The rain had intensified by midnight, turning the streets of Manhattan into a blurred maze of neon and water. I sat in the study of my penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, the lights turned low, a glass of untouched Barolo resting on the heavy mahogany desk.
Marco stood near the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He had been with me since we were teenagers in Newark, running numbers through the construction yards. He was the only man alive who could speak the truth to me without risking his life.
"We checked the logs from the Milan clinic five years ago," Marco said, his voice flat, professional. "The lead physician, Dr. Rossi, retired six months after Elena left the country. He bought a villa in Lake Como. The funds were routed through a shell company registered in Panama. The beneficial owner was your father's personal accountant."
I closed my eyes, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. "He lied to me. He made me destroy my own family for a war he wanted to fight with the Marcones."
"Vittorio did what he always did, Dominic," Marco said gently, stepping into the room. "He protected the empire at the cost of everything else. But that’s not our main problem right now. Julian Vance didn't just bring Elena back to show you the kid. He’s building a case. The federal investigation into Whitmore is just the tip of the spear. Vance has been collecting data on our logistics networks for three years."
"I don't care about the logistics networks, Marco," I snapped, my hand slamming down onto the desk, rattling the crystal glass. "The child. Gianna. She has the eyes. She’s four years old, which means Elena was already pregnant when I sent her away. She left this city carrying the next Don of the Valenti family, and she did it alone."
"She wasn't entirely alone," Marco pointed out. "The Vance family has deep pockets and deeper connections in Washington. If Julian is backing her, you can't just send soldiers to bring the child home. A move against Julian Vance brings the Department of Justice down on our heads before sunrise."
I stood up, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked Central Park. The city looked small from up here, a grid of lights that I had bled to control. But none of it mattered. The power felt hollow, like an empty suit of armor.
"My father is currently at the estate in Westchester," I said, my jaw tightening until it ached. "He thinks he’s an elder statesman now, advising me from the shadows. Call the cars, Marco. We’re going to have a family meeting."
"Dominic, it's one in the morning," Marco warned.
"I don't care if it's the end of the world," I whispered, my reflection in the dark glass showing a face hardened by five years of a lie. "He took my wife, and he hid my daughter. He’s lived long enough to answer for it."
As we left the penthouse, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an encrypted text message from an unknown number. I opened it, my breath catching as the image loaded.
May you like
It was a photograph of a drawing—a crude, childhood sketch of a purple dragon with giant green wings, drawn on a piece of white linen. Beneath it was a short text:
She kept the crayon. But she doesn't keep secrets. Stay away, Dominic.
