Chapter 3 - The Shadow of Victor Vance
By nightfall, the storm outside had intensified, whipping the old oak trees in the garden against the stone walls of Moretti Manor.
In the basement security suite—a high-tech bunker beneath the west wing equipped with satellite communications and encrypted servers—I sat across from Julian Vance. Not related to Victor, but a man who had served as my personal head of security and intelligence for over fifteen years.
Julian was a tall, stoic man with cropped silver hair and a sharp scar across his left jaw. He had served in army intelligence before entering private security, and he was one of three people in Chicago who knew exactly what I was capable of when provoked.
"You're sure about the digital logs?" I asked, watching three monitors flickering with financial records and shipping manifests.
"Confirmed, Boss," Julian said, tapping his finger on a glass screen displaying a series of heavily redacted wire transfers. "Six months before Mrs. Moretti's accident, three offshore shell accounts linked to Vance Development transferred four million dollars to a private maritime salvage crew operating out of Gary, Indiana."
I leaned closer to the screen. "Salvage?"
"The crew specializes in heavy underwater recovery," Julian explained, his voice low and cold. "Three days after your wife's car went into the lake, that same crew filed a work log claiming they were clearing submerged debris near the Lake Shore Drive breakwater. They pulled two heavy objects out of forty feet of water before the police dive team even arrived on the scene."
My jaw tightened until my teeth clicked. "They retrieved the vehicle's black box and the physical documents Isabella was carrying in her trunk."
"And they made sure the tire failure looked like an organic rubber blowout," Julian added. "I managed to track down the chief mechanic who inspected the wreckage at the impound lot back in three years ago. He was paid fifty grand in cash to sign off on the steering failure report without running a forensic analysis on the brake lines."
"Where is that mechanic now?"
"Living comfortably in a gated community in Naples, Florida," Julian replied. "I have two guys sitting outside his house right now. He'll talk if we ask him nicely. Or if we don't."
I stood up, walking toward the high-definition map of Chicago mounted on the concrete wall.
Victor Vance was a public icon. He sat on museum boards, donated millions to children's hospitals, and posed for photographs with mayors and governors. To the city of Chicago, he was a self-made billionaire philanthropist who built the skyline.
To me, he was a murderer who had butchered my child for the sake of a forty-story steel tower built on rotten foundation piers.
"How is the girl?" Julian asked softly, shifting the topic.
"Emma?" I paused, looking at the small security monitor displaying the kitchen wing.
On the screen, four-year-old Emma was sitting at the low breakfast counter, drinking a glass of warm milk while her mother folded napkins nearby. The little girl was holding a small piece of paper, scribbling intently with a red crayon.
"She's brave," I said, my voice softening for a fraction of a second. "She walked into the sunflower garden this morning. She left water and a picture of Thomas at the painted rock."
Julian sighed softly. "Thomas was a good foreman, Julian. He wouldn't take the kickbacks. When he realized Vance was using sub-standard rebar in the high-rise foundation to save thirty million dollars, he tried to go to the federal building. Vance had him thrown off the roof forty minutes before he reached the elevator."
"And Sophia knows?"
"She suspects, but she was terrified. Vance's men threatened to put Emma in the same ground if she ever opened her mouth." Julian turned to face me. "Boss, if we strike at Victor Vance, he won't just use lawyers. He has a private security force made up of former cartel enforcers and disgraced cops. He will turn this city into a war zone before he lets himself be put in handcuffs."
"Let him try," I said flatly. "I spent three years wishing I was dead, Julian. I was a ghost walking through an empty house. Vance didn't kill me three years ago—he just delayed the execution."
I turned back to the map, pinning a red location marker right over the River North tower—Victor Vance's headquarters.
"I want Victor Vance's inner circle identified by tomorrow morning," I commanded. "Every shell company, every corrupt judge on his payroll, every lieutenant who carries his orders. We aren't just going to expose him, Julian. We are going to dismantle his entire empire block by block until there is nowhere left for him to hide."
"And what about Mrs. Carter and the child?" Julian asked. "If Vance realizes we're digging into the Thomas Carter file, he'll target them first."
"They don't leave this estate," I said firmly. "Double the perimeter guards. Station four men at the gates and put two sniper teams on the roof. If anyone approaches this property without my personal authorization, put them in the ground."
Julian nodded once. "Understood, Mr. Moretti."
I walked out of the security room and climbed the stone staircase back to the main house.
As I passed the dark, quiet corridor leading to the staff quarters, I heard a soft, small voice echoing from a half-open door.
"Mr. Moretti?"
I stopped. Little Emma Carter was standing in the doorway, wearing her oversized pink pajamas, holding her small cloth doll by its faded arm. Her big hazel eyes were staring up at me through the dim hallway light.
I instinctively stepped back, unused to being approached by children, terrified that my dark presence would frighten her.
"Emma," I said awkwardly, keeping my distance. "You should be asleep. It's late."
The little girl didn't run away. She walked slowly toward me across the long rug, stopping right in front of my knees. She held up her tiny hand, offering me a folded piece of paper.
"I drew this for you," she whispered softly.
I hesitated, then slowly leaned down and took the small paper from her hands.
I unfolded it. It was a crude, colorful crayon drawing. On the left was a giant grey house with dark windows. On the right was a big yellow sunflower with bright green leaves. And in the middle were three tiny figures holding hands—a tall man in a dark suit, a little girl in a yellow dress, and a tiny baby with a golden halo above its head.
"Why did you draw this?" I asked, my throat feeling suddenly tight, my voice trembling slightly.
"Because the garden told me a secret," Emma whispered, leaning closer, her small breath smelling of sweet warm milk.
"What secret?"
"The sunflowers aren't sad anymore," she said brightly, her small face illuminating with a pure, innocent smile. "They said the big man in the house is going to bring my Papa's picture home."
I closed my eyes, my hand clutching the tiny paper drawing tightly against my chest.
May you like
When I opened them again, I looked down at the daughter of the man who had tried to save my family.
"I will, Emma," I promised, my voice echoing with an absolute, ironclad vow that echoed through the silent halls of Moretti Manor. "I'm bringing everyone home."
