Chapter 4 - The Ledger and the Lion
I woke up the next morning to the smell of fresh coffee and crisp bacon.
For a moment, I forgot where I was. I opened my eyes to see high ceilings, white linen sheets, and sun streaming through heavy velvet drapes. Beside me, Noah was star-sectioned across the king-sized bed, fast asleep, hugging a giant plush T-Rex that definitely hadn't been there when we went to bed.
I sat up instantly.
On the armchair near the window sat three neatly stacked boxes from an high-end department store. A note resting on top read: Sizes based on observation. Wear what is comfortable. — D.V.
I opened the top box. Inside were tailored knit sweaters, comfortable dark denim jeans, brand-new sneakers, and high-end silk loungewear—all in my exact size, flattering for a curvy frame, without a single piece designed to hide or apologize for my body. There was even a tiny box filled with toddler clothes and light-up dinosaur shoes for Noah.
My eyes welled with tears. I swallowed the lump in my throat, dressed quickly in a soft plum-colored cashmere sweater and dark jeans, and woke Noah up.
When we walked down the grand oak staircase forty minutes later, we found Dominic sitting at the long mahogany dining table.
He had shed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing thick, muscular arms covered in dark hair and faint silver scars. He was reading a financial newspaper while sipping black coffee.
Noah didn't hesitate. He ran straight across the Persian rug, his light-up dinosaur shoes squeaking with every step.
“Giant man!” Noah chirped, stopping right beside Dominic’s chair. “Look at my shoes! They light up red when I stomp!”
Gabe, who was standing near the sideboard holding a tactical tablet, looked like he was about to faint.
Dominic slowly lowered his newspaper. He looked down at Noah, then looked at the shoes.
Then, with absolute seriousness, Dominic raised his foot—shod in a thousand-dollar leather oxford—and stomped it gently on the floor.
“Very impressive,” Dominic said, his deep voice deadpan. “Mine don't light up. I might need to talk to my tailor.”
Noah giggled hysterically, climbing unceremoniously onto the chair next to Dominic and reaching for a piece of bacon.
“Noah, manners!” I scolded, coming into the dining room.
“Let him eat, Abigail,” Dominic said, pushing the plate of bacon closer to my son. He looked up at me, his eyes lingering on the plum sweater for a beat longer than necessary. “It fits.”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you. You didn't have to buy all of this.”
“I don't like my guests wearing wet clothes,” Dominic replied, gesturing toward the seat opposite him, where a high-end laptop and two steaming mugs of coffee were set up. “Now. Sit down. Show me how twenty-four million was diverted through the Newark port facilities.”
For the next three hours, the grand dining room transformed into a tactical war room.
Noah played happily on the rug nearby with his new dinosaurs, completely oblivious to the fact that his mother was breaking down an international money laundering scheme for New York's most dangerous syndicate leader.
I opened the encrypted files on the laptop, my fingers flying across the keyboard.
“Here,” I said, pointing at a row of recurring entries. “Vanessa Sloan didn't just alter the shipping manifests. She created a ghost inventory system. Every Tuesday, three container ships belonging to Northstar reported 'damaged goods' at the Newark dock. The insurance payouts were routed to a shell company in the Cayman Islands called Blue Wave Logistics.”
Dominic leaned in close, his shoulder pressing against mine. Heat radiated off his body, making my pulse jump erratically.
“And who owns Blue Wave?” Dominic asked, his breath warm against my cheek.
“That’s the thing,” I said, pulling up another sub-folder I had cracked at two in the morning. “It isn't just Vanessa Sloan and Marcus Vance. Look at the signatory on the offshore tax filing.”
Dominic stared at the screen. His jaw tightened so hard I heard his teeth grind.
“Victor Ross,” Dominic whispered, his voice dripping with lethal realization.
May you like
“Who is Victor Ross?” I asked.
“My chief financial officer,” Dominic said, rising slowly from his chair. The air in the room instantly chilled by twenty degrees. “The man who has sat at my dinner table every Sunday for ten years.”
