Chapter 12 - the paper trail
By 3:00 AM, the Moretti estate was locked down tighter than a military fortress.
State police cruisers lined the outer perimeter of the highway, their red and blue lights flashing against the wet pine trees. Inside the grand library, Dante and six of Gabriel’s senior captains stood in absolute silence around the massive mahogany desk.
Colin Harper had been taken away in zip-ties, handed over to Dante’s interrogation team in an off-site warehouse.
Hannah sat on a leather armchair near the fireplace, wrapped in a warm wool blanket, sipping hot tea. Lucia was finally asleep upstairs in Gabriel’s personal bedroom under the armed watch of Nicholas and two trusted guards.
Gabriel stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out into the dark forest. His white dress shirt was ruined, his knuckles bruised, but his posture remained rigid and imposing.
"Elena’s car was found abandoned near Midway Airport," Dante reported, setting a burnt metal lockbox onto Gabriel’s desk. "She had a private Gulfstream waiting on a private charter tarmac. She’s already in the air, boss."
"Flight plan?" Gabriel asked without turning around.
"Filed for Miami, but air traffic control says they turned east over the Atlantic," Dante replied. "She's heading to Europe. Back to Sicily."
Gabriel turned slowly. He walked over to the desk, his eyes fixing on the scorched lockbox. "What was inside her safe?"
"Most of the documents were torched with an incendiary grenade before she left," Dante said. "She tried to burn everything. But our guys managed to salvage one ledger."
Dante used a hunting knife to pry open the blackened lid of the box, pulling out a water-damaged leather-bound notebook.
Gabriel flipped through the charred pages. Most of the handwriting was ruined by heat and water, but the final three pages were completely intact.
Hannah leaned forward from the armchair. "What did she write?"
Gabriel read in silence for nearly a minute. His jaw clenched tighter with every passing second.
"It’s not just a property grab," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly whisper. "Julian and Elena weren't working for Enzo Rossi’s faction. They were taking orders from someone higher up."
"Higher than Rossi?" Dante asked, genuinely stunned. "Boss, Rossi runs the entire western coast of Sicily."
"Rossi is an enforcer," Gabriel said, tossing the charred ledger onto the desk. "Look at the bank routing numbers on page forty-two. The money funding this hit didn't come from Italy."
Hannah stood up, walking toward the desk. Her eyes scanned the neat, handwritten numbers and banking codes.
"Those aren't Italian banks," Hannah noted, pointing a finger at the routing code stamped at the top of the receipt. "That’s a private boutique bank in Zurich. And the account holder isn't Elena."
Gabriel looked at Hannah, his eyes dark with suspicion. "You recognize that banking code?"
"My foster father in Boston was a commercial accountant," Hannah explained quietly. "He dealt with international trust funds. That specific prefix belongs to the Hawthorne Trust in New York."
Dante cursed under his breath. "The Hawthornes? They're one of the oldest political dynasties on the East Coast. What the hell do New York politicians want with a nine-year-old girl in Chicago?"
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Gabriel closed the ledger with a dull thud.
"They don't want the girl," Gabriel said. "They want what her mother hid before she died."
