Chapter 3 - The Midnight Ledger
The private chapel sat fifty yards behind the main mansion, surrounded by snow-draped pine trees and ancient stone walls. Built from dark granite in the 1920s, it served as the original sanctuary and private mausoleum for the Ravelli dynasty.
Dominic walked through the howling blizzard, his heavy leather shoes crunching against the deep snow. Beside him walked Frank, carrying a tactical flashlight and a suppressed submachine gun.
They pushed open the heavy iron doors of the chapel. The air inside was freezing, smelling of damp stone, old candles, and aged leather.
Near the high marble altar, a heavy stone floor panel had been pried open, revealing a dark flight of stairs descending into the subterranean crypt below.
Dominic descended the stairs like a shadow, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning the darkness.
At the bottom of the flight lay a circular stone chamber lined with marble tombs. Sitting on a stone pedestal in the center of the room was a heavy steel safe, its door hanging wide open.
Standing before the safe was a man in a dark tactical suit, stuffing thick yellowed files into a leather briefcase.
"Freeze," Dominic commanded, his voice echoing off the cold granite walls.
The man froze, slowly turning around. Beneath his tactical visor, his face was fair, rosy, and familiar—it was Julian Vance, Vivienne’s younger brother, who was supposed to be in Europe!
"Dominic..." Julian stammered, holding the briefcase against his chest. "You weren't supposed to come down here until midnight!"
"Drop the briefcase, Julian," Dominic said coldly, stepping closer.
Julian hesitated, then pulled a small remote detonator from his pocket. "If you take one more step, Dominic, the thermal charges placed along the foundation will collapse this chapel! The documents inside this briefcase prove you are an impostor!"
Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't slow his pace. Moving with terrifying efficiency, Dominic closed the distance in a fraction of a second, grabbing Julian’s wrist and twisting it with iron force until the detonator clattered onto the stone floor.
Dominic slammed his broad palm into Julian’s chest, throwing him back against a marble tomb, and snatched the leather briefcase from his hands.
Dominic opened the briefcase under the beam of Frank’s flashlight.
Inside lay an antique, leather-bound hospital intake registry from 1974, stamped with the seal of the Sicilian State Health Department. Attached to the front page was a certified DNA comparison report.
Dominic opened the folder. His dark eyes scanned the yellowed pages.
As he read the lines of Italian script, his chest heaved with heavy, controlled breaths.
The report did not say Dominic was a Moretti. It stated that eighty-year-old Agatha Ravelli had given birth to twins in Palermo fifty-two years ago—a boy and a girl.
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And the girl’s name listed on the birth registry was Vivienne Ravelli.
Dominic stared at the page in absolute, stunned shock. Vivienne was not his sister-in-law. She was his biological twin sister!
