Chapter 3 - The ghost in the files
The coastal rain began to fall just past midnight, washing over the massive stone pillars of Frank DeLuca’s private estate. The house was a fortress, secluded at the edge of a cliff, surrounded by acres of dark, silent forest. Inside, the cinematic warmth of a roaring fireplace lit the expansive mahogany library.
Frank sat in a heavy leather armchair, his dark suit jacket draped over the back. He wore a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms thick with old, faded scars. He held a crystal glass of bourbon, but he wasn't drinking. His eyes were locked on the master flash drive his men had extracted from Vivienne’s safe earlier that evening.
Standing across the desk was Marco, a forty-year-old enforcer who had served the DeLuca family his entire adult life. Marco was built like a heavyweight fighter, wearing a tailored black suit that barely contained his athletic frame.
The encryption was heavy, boss, Marco said, his American accent gruff and respectful. But our tech guys cracked it. Vivienne has been running a massive shadow operation under the guise of the charity board. She isn't just moving money. She's moving people.
Frank remained absolutely still. Explain.
Marco tapped a key on the laptop sitting on the desk. A series of highly classified documents appeared on the screen. The charity foundation is supposed to help orphaned children from impoverished neighborhoods find foster homes. But Vivienne created a VIP tier. For the last fifteen years, she has been identifying specific children—healthy, intelligent, completely undocumented—and routing them away from the state system. She falsifies their death certificates, changes their names, and adopts them out to billionaire families who want perfectly clean, untraceable heirs.
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. The crackle of the fireplace suddenly felt deafening.
Frank placed his glass on the table. He reached out and turned the laptop toward him. His weathered face betrayed no emotion, but his grip on the edge of the desk was tight enough to splinter the wood.
Twelve years ago, Frank’s estranged daughter, Isabella, had died in a tragic car accident on a slick, rain-soaked highway. The police told Frank she had been alone. But Frank had always known his daughter was pregnant. The hospital claimed the trauma of the crash had caused a miscarriage before she died. Frank had buried his daughter and the empty promise of a grandchild in the same cold earth, stepping down from the mafia empire the very next day, broken by grief.
But a week ago, an old contact in the medical examiner's office had sent Frank a deathbed confession from the doctor who treated Isabella. The doctor admitted there was no miscarriage. The baby had survived. A healthy baby boy. And within an hour of his birth, a wealthy woman in a crimson coat had paid the doctor a fortune to hand the child over and forge the records.
Pull up the records for November the fourth, twelve years ago, Frank commanded, his voice a dangerous, gravelly whisper.
Marco typed rapidly. The screen flashed, bringing up a scanned document. It was a transfer file.
Male infant. Unnamed, Marco read aloud. Transferred to the Blackwood Point facility. Adoptive family listed as... redacted. Vivienne scrubbed the final destination.
Frank stared at the screen. His grandchild was alive. Raised by strangers. Sold by a woman who sat at fancy galas drinking champagne while Frank spent twelve years mourning at an empty grave.
Where is Vivienne right now? Frank asked, standing up and grabbing his wooden cane.
She panicked after you took the drive, Marco replied. She emptied her personal bank accounts an hour ago. She’s currently sitting in a private VIP lounge at the downtown airfield. She chartered a jet to Switzerland. It leaves in twenty minutes.
Frank slipped his dark suit jacket on. The legendary mafia boss, who had promised his dying wife he would never return to the life of violence, looked at his enforcer.
Ground the plane, Frank said, his eyes burning with a terrifying, absolute resolve. And bring her to the warehouse.
At the private airfield, Vivienne paced the luxurious lounge, her high heels clicking anxiously against the marble floor. She had changed out of her crimson gown into a sleek, expensive black traveling suit. Her fair skin was pale, her usual arrogant composure completely shattered. She kept checking her diamond watch.
The lounge doors slid open. A pilot in a crisp white uniform stepped in.
Ms. Cole? The jet is fully fueled. We are ready for boarding, the pilot said politely.
Vivienne let out a massive sigh of relief. Finally. Let's go.
She grabbed her designer leather bag and walked out onto the tarmac. The night air was freezing. She hurried up the stairs to the private jet, desperate to put an ocean between herself and Frank DeLuca. She stepped into the luxurious cabin, shutting the heavy door behind her.
Take off immediately, she yelled toward the cockpit.
There was no answer.
Vivienne frowned. She walked down the aisle toward the front of the plane. Hello? I said we are leaving!
She pushed the cockpit curtain aside. The pilot's seat was empty. The co-pilot's seat was empty.
A deep, terrifyingly calm voice spoke from the shadows at the back of the cabin.
The flight has been canceled, Vivienne.
May you like
Vivienne spun around, dropping her expensive bag. Sitting in the plush leather seat at the rear of the cabin, his hands resting patiently on his wooden cane, was Frank DeLuca. He looked at her not with anger, but with the cold, calculating precision of an apex predator who had successfully cornered his prey.
Vivienne screamed, lunging for the emergency exit door. But before her hand could even touch the handle, the cabin lights went completely black.
