Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Ledger
The sun had dipped below the tree line, casting long, bruised shadows across the Moretti estate. Inside the main study, the only light came from a single green-shaded desk lamp, illuminating pages of financial ledgers that hadn't been opened in three years.
Lucas sat in the dark, his eyes bloodshot, working through layers of corporate shell companies, offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, and real estate transactions registered under dummy names in Zurich and Panama.
For three years, Victor Romano had managed the day-to-day operations of Moretti Shipping and Logistics while Lucas drank whiskey and mourned. Victor was the loyal lieutenant, the brother-in-arms, the uncle who brought Daniel toy trucks on holidays.
And according to the encrypted financial trail sent by his anonymous informant, Victor was also the man who had sold out Isabella and Daniel to the highest bidder.
The front door of the study clicked open.
Lucas didn't look up. He knew the step. Heavy, confident, smelling of expensive cologne and expensive scotch.
“Lucas,” Victor’s voice boomed into the quiet room, warm and boisterous as always. “Rosa said you had some kind of medical episode today. Are you trying to kill yourself? We’ve got the dock union negotiations on Thursday, and the boys from Chicago are flying in. I can’t run this empire without the boss in the chair.”
Victor walked toward the desk, wearing a tailored charcoal suit, his silver-streaked hair neatly combed, a wide, sympathetic smile plastered across his handsome face. He looked like the quintessential loyal consigliere.
Lucas slowly closed the ledger in front of him.
“I had a moment of weakness, Vic,” Lucas said, his voice dangerously low. He kept his face half-shadowed by the lamp. “Felt my lungs give out. Thought I was joining Isabella.”
Victor’s expression softened into an expert mask of grief. He reached out, placing a heavy, warm hand on Lucas’s shoulder.
“Hey, we don’t talk about that night, remember?” Victor said, his tone dripping with brotherly concern. “We buried our ghosts, Lucas. You, me, and the bottle. You’ve got to take care of yourself. Who else is going to keep these animals in line?”
Lucas looked up at Victor’s hand resting on his shoulder. Underneath the expensive wool of the suit, he could almost see the blood.
“You’re right, Vic,” Lucas said smoothly, rising from his chair. He walked over to the mahogany bar in the corner of the room. “I need to take better care of myself. Let’s have a drink to celebrate my miraculous recovery.”
Victor chuckled, taking a seat in one of the leather armchairs by the fireplace. “Now you’re talking. Pour me a finger of the eighteen-year-old Macallan.”
Lucas poured two glasses, his hands steady as rock. He dropped a single large ice cube into each glass, the crystal clinking against the glass in the quiet room. He walked over, handing one to Victor, and raised his own.
“To old friends, Vic,” Lucas said, his gray-blue eyes locking onto Victor’s. “May we never forget who was standing beside us when the fire started.”
Victor’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second—a micro-expression of unease that only a trained killer would notice. But he recovered instantly, smiling broadly.
“To old friends,” Victor echoed, and took a deep sip of the whiskey.
As Victor swallowed, Lucas watched him with a cold, predatory fascination.
“By the way, Vic,” Lucas said casually, walking back toward his desk. “Rosa hired a new housekeeper today. A Mrs. Carter. Her little girl has asthma. Ended up saving my life this morning when my inhaler went missing.”
Victor set his glass down on the side table. The glass made a sharp thump against the wood.
“A housekeeper?” Victor frowned slightly. “Lucas, you know we don't allow strangers on the estate. Especially with kids. Security risk. Who cleared her?”
“Rosa did,” Lucas replied evenly. “And I approved it. The little girl’s name is Lily. Sweet kid. Reminds me of... well, reminds me of what family used to look like.”
Victor’s jaw tightened. A muscle twitched near his right eye. “Right. Well, keep an eye on her. You never know who people are working for these days. Rivals get desperate.”
“Indeed they do,” Lucas agreed softly.
Just then, a soft knock tapped against the study door. Before Lucas could answer, the door swung open a few inches, and a small head with two crooked braids peered into the room.
It was Lily.
She was holding Mr. Ears—a stuffed rabbit with one floppy ear—in her arms, wearing her oversized pink pajama shirt. She looked around the cavernous, dark room, her big brown eyes landing directly on Lucas.
“Mister Lucas?” she whispered timidly. “Mama said I shouldn't bother you, but I dropped my red crayon under the big stairs, and I can't reach it.”
Lucas felt something inside his chest—something hard and frozen for three years—crack right down the middle.
Before he could speak, Victor stood up from his armchair, his face darkening with irritation.
“Hey! What is this brat doing in here?” Victor snapped, his voice sharp and commanding, lacking the warm veneer he used with Lucas. “Get out of here, kid. This is private property.”
Lily flinched violently at Victor’s harsh tone. Her lower lip quivered, and she took a step backward, clutching her stuffed rabbit so hard her knuckles turned white.
Lucas didn't move. But the temperature in the room dropped to absolute zero.
“Victor,” Lucas said. His voice wasn't loud. It was barely above a whisper. But it carried the terrifying weight of an executioner’s axe.
Victor blinked, turning back to Lucas. “Lucas, I’m just saying, we don't need strays wandering around—'
“She is not a stray,” Lucas interrupted, his gray-blue eyes locking onto Victor with a glare that made the older man’s breath hitch. “And in this house, you do not raise your voice to children.”
Victor swallowed hard, holding up his hands defensively. “Right. Sorry. Nerves are shot today. I’ll leave you to your paperwork.”
Victor walked briskly toward the door, passing Lily without looking at her, and strode out into the hallway, slamming the heavy oak door behind him.
Lucas stood up from his desk, walked slowly across the Persian rug, and knelt down until he was eye-level with the little girl.
“Hey, Lily,” Lucas said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Crayon under the stairs, huh?”
Lily nodded slowly, still sniffing. “It’s my favorite red one. For drawing horses.”
May you like
Lucas offered a faint, ghost of a smile—the first genuine smile he had given anyone in three years.
“Well,” Lucas said, standing up and offering her his hand. “Let’s go find that horse.”
