Chapter 5 - The Vault of Secrets
At 11:30 PM, a black armored SUV pulled up to the rear entrance of the First National Bank building in downtown Chicago.
Snow was falling heavily, cloaking the marble skyscrapers in a blanket of white. Dominic stepped out of the vehicle, flanked by two former Special Forces operatives who served as his personal security team.
Waiting in the dimly lit bank lobby was Thomas Sterling, the seventy-year-old president of the bank and a lifelong friend of Dominic’s late mother.
“Dominic,” Thomas said quietly, shaking his hand with a grave expression. “I heard about the circus outside the Drake Hotel. Malcolm Voss is pulling out all the stops. He’s already contacted three appellate judges trying to get a midnight freeze order on this vault.”
“Did he get it?” Dominic asked as they walked toward the heavy steel elevator leading to the subterranean vaults.
“Not while I’m breathing,” Thomas replied, pulling a heavy brass key from his pocket. “Your mother gave me specific instructions twenty-eight years ago, Dominic. She told me, ‘If my son ever comes to you with the key and his amber eyes, open the door, no matter who tells you to stop.’”
Five minutes later, they stood inside the bank’s deepest vault—a quiet, stainless-steel room surrounded by reinforced concrete walls.
Thomas led Dominic to Box #408.
Dominic inserted the key Eliza had given him into the left keyhole, while Thomas inserted the master bank key into the right. Together, they turned the mechanisms simultaneously.
A loud, metallic clunk echoed through the vault.
Dominic pulled out the heavy steel deposit box and carried it to a small viewing table in the center of the room.
Inside lay three items:
A thick, leather-bound journal written in Eleanor Vance-Blackwood’s delicate handwriting.
An old reel-to-reel micro-cassette tape labeled November 14, 1998 — Office of Malcolm Voss.
A certified stock certificate representing fifty-one percent of the voting shares of Blackwood Engineering, registered under a irrevocable trust named The Vance-Blackwood Heirs Trust.
Dominic picked up the small micro-cassette tape. Beside the table sat an old audio playback device that Thomas had prepared in advance.
Dominic inserted the tape and hit play.
A hiss of static filled the cold steel vault, followed by the muffled sound of voices inside a wood-paneled office.
First, the deep, arrogant voice of Richard Blackwood:
“She’s going to the federal prosecutor tomorrow, Malcolm. She found the ledger for the Panama accounts.”
Then, the sharp, calculating voice of Malcolm Voss:
“If she talks, Richard, we both go to federal prison for thirty years. The board will dissolve the company by Friday.”
“What are you proposing?” Richard asked after a long pause.
“Her car is scheduled for service at the corporate garage tomorrow morning,” Malcolm’s voice replied, entirely devoid of emotion. “An issue with the brake line fluids on the highway can be arranged cleanly. The weather forecast predicts ice. It will look like a tragic accident.”
“And Dominic?” Richard’s voice sounded slightly hesitant.
“The boy is seven. He will believe whatever story you tell him. We raise him to take over the company when he’s ready. He’ll never know.”
The tape ended with a sharp click and a stream of static.
Dominic stood completely still in the center of the vault. His hands were clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles turned white, his fingernails biting into his palms.
For twenty-eight years, he had lived under the roof of the man who had ordered his mother’s murder. He had built an empire for him. He had sacrificed his marriage, his happiness, and his own children to earn the approval of a monster and his assassin.
Thomas Sterling closed his eyes, tears brimming in his aged lashes. “My God... Eleanor knew. She hid this tape here hours before she died.”
Dominic slowly picked up the tape, placing it carefully inside his coat pocket alongside the stock certificates.
He pulled out his satellite phone and pressed a speed-dial button.
“Claire,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into an icy, quiet tone that carried the force of an oncoming storm.
“Yes, Dominic?” Claire answered instantly.
“Call an immediate press conference at Blackwood Headquarters at 8:00 AM tomorrow morning,” Dominic instructed. “Invite every major news outlet, every financial network, and every member of the federal prosecutors' office in the tri-state area.”
May you like
“And Malcolm Voss?” Claire asked.
“Tell Malcolm to attend,” Dominic said, looking down at his mother’s stock certificates. “Tell him I’m surrendering the company.”
