Chapter 6 - the locket and the ledger
The lockbox had no keyhole—only a mechanical three-digit combination lock.
Victor knelt on the cold stone floor, the rain pouring through the open iron gates behind him. He didn't hesitate. He dialed 0-8-1, Adriana’s birthday.
The mechanism didn't budge.
He tried his own birthday. Nothing.
Then he remembered the clinic in Boston Dr. Marcus had mentioned. 1988. Victor dialed 1-9-8.
A sharp click echoed through the marble vault. The lid popped open.
Inside lay two items: a thick, leather-bound black journal coated in a thin layer of dust, and a faded photograph protected in a plastic sleeve.
Victor picked up the photograph first.
The picture was taken on a sunlit veranda overlooking Lake Como. In the center sat his mother, Helena, looking radiant in a summer dress, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a blue blanket. Standing beside her, his hand resting affectionately on her shoulder, was not Salvatore Bellandi.
It was a tall, sharp-featured man with fair hair, piercing grey eyes, and a tailored suit that carried the distinct cut of old New England money.
Victor flipped the photo over. Written in Helena’s delicate handwriting were the words: *Julian and Victor. Summer 1988.*
Victor’s hands remained steady, but inside, the foundation of his entire life was fracturing. He had spent his youth learning how to kill, lead, and command under the brutal guidance of Salvatore Bellandi, believing he was the sole prince of a criminal empire.
He opened the black journal.
The first page was dated July 14, 1988, in Salvatore’s harsh, heavy scrawl:
*The child belongs to Julian Vance. If the Council discovers Helena conceived an heir with the man who funded our northern syndicate rivals, the families will demand both their heads. I have handled Vance. His plane went down over the Atlantic this morning. Helena will raise the boy as mine, and he will carry the Bellandi name until he is strong enough to bury the Vance bloodline forever.*
Victor read the lines three times.
Julian Vance. The founder of the Vance Banking Syndicate that had dominated Boston's ports before mysteriously collapsing in the late eighties. The empire Salvatore had ruthlessly absorbed.
"Boss?" Luca’s voice called from the doorway of the crypt, dripping wet from the rain. "We have a problem back at the mansion."
Victor snapped the journal shut and slipped it into his coat. "What happened?"
"Miss Adriana," Luca said, his voice laced with panic. "She tried to slip out through the servant's quarters. We intercepted her at the perimeter gate, but she wasn't running away."
Victor stepped out into the rain, his eyes blazing. "What was she doing?"
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"She was meeting someone at the tree line," Luca said. "A courier dropped off an envelope. And when we searched it... it was addressed to you, Victor."
***
