Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Past
The fire crackled in the hearth, spitting a shower of tiny sparks against the iron screen. The warmth reached my skin, but I couldn't stop shivering.
"The wrong twin," I repeated, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Are you saying they were targeting her because of something she knew?"
"I’m saying Natalie wasn't just an ordinary photographer working at a boutique gallery on Michigan Avenue," Gabriel said, standing up and walking slowly toward the roaring fire. He stared down into the flames, his broad back turned to me. "Six months ago, she started asking questions about a real estate acquisition trust called Veles Holdings. They were buying up commercial warehouses along the Chicago riverfront—warehouses my logistics companies used for cargo routing."
My breath caught. Veles.
It was an old Slavic name, rooted deep in the mythology of our parents' homeland—the god of the underworld, cattle, and trickery. It was also a word our father used to whisper whenever he spoke of the syndicate bosses who had forced our family to flee across the Atlantic when we were children.
"Why would Natalie care about real estate warehouses?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper.
"Because one of those warehouses wasn't storing shipping containers," Gabriel turned back around, his face carved from shadow and amber light. "It was serving as a transit point for smuggled art and narcotics operated by the Outfit’s eastern faction—led by a man named Victor Moretti. And according to the digital footprint I recovered from her laptop yesterday, Natalie managed to copy a master ledger of every transaction before she vanished."
I stood up from the armchair, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. "She had the ledger? That’s why they killed her."
"That’s why they killed her," Gabriel confirmed grimly. "And now, they’re going to assume she gave that ledger to her identical twin sister—the woman who just flew in from Seattle and showed up at her funeral."
Before I could process the terrifying scale of the trap I had willingly walked into, the heavy oak door of the study flew open.
Franco Rinaldi stood in the threshold, his face pale under the harsh corridor light, his hand resting firmly on the butt of the Sig Sauer tucked into his belt.
"Boss," Franco said, his voice clipped and urgent. "We’ve got movement on the perimeter sensors. Three unlabelled vehicles just turned down the private drive. They aren't waiting for the gate code. They're ramming the security barrier."
Gabriel didn't panic. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. In a fraction of a second, the grieving fiancé vanished, replaced entirely by the cold, ruthless syndicate boss who ruled half of Chicago.
He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a compact, matte-black Glock 19, checked the magazine with a sharp clack, and tossed it across the mahogany table toward me.
I caught it out of the air instinctively, my fingers wrapping around the textured polymer grip with the familiar, muscle-memory weight of a weapon I hadn't touched in three years.
"Can you shoot?" Gabriel asked, his eyes locked onto mine.
I pulled back the slide, chambering a hollow-point round with a crisp, mechanical snap, and met his gaze without blinking.
May you like
"My father taught us both," I said coldly. "Only Natalie forgot the lesson."
Gabriel gave a single, sharp nod. "Stay behind me. If anyone comes through that door who isn't wearing a Donatelli pin, put a bullet between their eyes."
