Chapter 5 - a false answer
Dominic stood in his private study on the top floor of the Gold Coast tower. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a sweeping view of the frozen Chicago skyline.
In the adjoining guest suite, Claire and Lily were fast asleep under the watchful eye of two loyal guards. On Dominic's desk lay the spent brass bullet casing recovered from the rooftop.
Vincent walked into the study, holding a glass of Scotch. He set the glass on the desk, his expression disciplined and calm.
"We analyzed the sniper's rifle, Don Dominic," Vincent reported. "It was a Barrett multi-role rifle stolen from our South Side armory three weeks ago. The shooter was a hired mercenary named Carlin—a man who used to do contract work for the Moretti syndicate."
Dominic picked up the spent casing, holding it under his brass desk lamp. "Carlin worked for Moretti?"
"Yes, Boss," Vincent said, sitting in the leather chair across from the desk. "Moretti discovered that Claire was alive yesterday. He sent Carlin to kill her so he could claim the Bellini docks under the old municipal squatter laws. It was a Moretti strike."
Dominic nodded slowly, looking out at the city lights.
On the surface, the explanation was seamless. The Morettis were Vescari's primary rivals in Chicago. They had every financial motive to eliminate the last Bellini heir and seize the lucrative riverfront shipping terminals.
"Good work, Vincent," Dominic said softly. "Set up a meeting with Don Moretti for tomorrow night. We settle this territory dispute once and for all."
"I'll arrange it immediately, Don Dominic," Vincent said, bowing his head before stepping out of the study.
Once the oak door clicked shut, Dominic picked up his magnifying loupe from the desk drawer. He brought the spent brass casing back under the bright halogen light.
The lion crest stamped on the base was flanked by two microscopic initials: V.C.
Dominic’s grey-blue eyes hardened into absolute ice.
The custom ammunition wasn't just Vescari family property. The V.C. initials stood for Vincent Cole. It was Vincent's personal match-grade ammunition—rounds hand-loaded by Vincent himself in his private armory beneath the estate.
Vincent hadn't just covered up Claire's existence; Vincent was the man who had hired Carlin to murder her.
Dominic opened his desk drawer, pulled out a encrypted satellite phone, and dialed a private number he hadn't called in seven years.
The line clicked open, followed by a raspy, elderly voice on the other end: "Dominic... I wondered how long it would take you to find the custom brass."
Dominic recognized the voice instantly. It belonged to Dr. Aris Vance—the physician who had been treating Claire.
"Dr. Vance," Dominic said coldly. "Why did you sign those prescriptions for Claire Bellini?"
"Because Vincent Cole paid me one million dollars two years ago to keep her alive until Lily turned six years old," Vance revealed, coughing weakly over the line. "Vincent didn't want Claire dead seven years ago, Dominic. He needed an heir to turn six years old so he could activate the blind trust clause in your father's master charter!"
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Dominic’s breath caught in his chest. "What blind trust clause?"
"Under your father's charter," Vance whispered, "if a Bellini child reaches her sixth birthday, the ownership of the Chicago shipping docks transfers automatically from the Vescari syndicate to the child's legal guardian—and two years ago, Vincent forged legal guardianship papers naming himself as Lily's trustee!"
