Chapter 11 - The Inheritance of SmokeThe smoke cleared from the estate by mid-morning, but the phantom scent of cordite and burnt cedar lingered in the hallways like a bad memory. Federal agents swarmed the grounds, bagging shell casings, towing tactical vehicles, and carting off the remnants of Kane’s shattered private army.
I stood in my private study, watching the federal convoy snake its way down the long, winding gravel drive toward the main iron gates. On the desk lay the prize that had nearly burned my entire world to the ground: a small, matte-black digital flash drive extracted from the cotton lining of Lily’s battered stuffed rabbit.
Sarah Vance walked in without knocking, holding two cups of black coffee and looking every bit like a woman who hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours.
“Forensics finished scraping the drive,” Sarah said, sliding a cup across the mahogany desk toward me. “It’s clean. Master encryption keys, offshore banking logs, shell company registries, and a complete directory of every corrupted official from city hall to the federal bench. Kane’s empire didn't just collapse; it imploded.”
“And Kane?” I asked, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic cup.
“In custody under maximum security isolation,” she replied, taking a slow sip. “He won’t see daylight again until his trial, and even then, half the people whose names are on this drive will make sure he doesn't talk too loud. But Adrian... there’s a footnote in the financial logs that you need to see.”
She tapped a folder onto the desk. I opened it, scanning the rows of corporate entities and dummy accounts. My eyes stopped dead on a name buried deep beneath a subsidiary holding company registered in Zurich.
May you like
Moretti Holdings, 1998.
A cold, heavy knot formed instantly in my stomach. The company that had funded my father’s original waterfront shipping empire hadn't been built on legitimate loans or family wealth. It had been financed by the very syndicate Victor Kane had spent his life operating.
