Chapter 8 - The Ghost in the Glass
Ten minutes later, rain continued to pour over the estate as Constantine, Josie, and Mila walked down the stone pathway toward the Victorian greenhouse at the edge of the property.
The glass structure was dark, covered in climbing ivy, its interior filled with white orchids that Elena had planted years before.
Constantine pushed the glass door open. The air inside smelled of damp soil, blooming flowers, and old rain.
Mila led them directly to the center of the greenhouse, where a large stone fountain shaped like an angel stood surrounded by marble tiles. She pointed to a loose stone at the base of the fountain’s pedestal.
Constantine dropped to his knees, inserting his knife into the seam of the tile and prying it upward.
Beneath the stone lay a small, rusted iron box sealed with a heavy padlock bearing the Voss crest.
Constantine inserted the silver key into the lock. It turned with a satisfying, metallic click.
He opened the lid.
Inside lay a black leather-bound ledger, a USB flash drive, and a handwritten letter addressed to Constantine in Elena’s delicate handwriting.
Constantine picked up the letter with shaking fingers. He unfolded the paper under the moonlight filtering through the glass ceiling.
My dearest Constantine,
If you are reading this, it means Nikolai has finally made his move, and I am no longer with you. I discovered the truth two months ago. Nikolai never stroke-disabled himself. He forged his medical records to hide his offshore accounts in Switzerland.
He has been siphoning millions from our shipping routes to fund a private military network in Canada. When I confronted him at the Beacon Hill Club, he threatened to kill Mila. I hid this ledger containing all his bank codes and wire receipts under the greenhouse floor.
He knows I have it. If anything happens to me, look to the docks on October 14th. He plans to take the empire back by force.
I love you forever. Protect our daughter.
Elena.
A tear slipped from Constantine’s eye, dropping onto his wife’s handwriting.
Suddenly, the soft sound of applause echoed from the entrance of the greenhouse.
“How touching,” a raspy, refined voice echoed through the damp air. “A message from the dead.”
Constantine spun around, pulling his weapon in a single fluid motion.
Standing at the doorway of the greenhouse, flanked by six heavily armed men in black tactical gear, was Nikolai Voss.
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He no longer sat in a wheelchair. He stood tall, wearing a cashmere overcoat, holding a gold-trimmed cane in one hand and a wintergreen cigar in the other.
Pinned to his lapel was the silver crest.
