Chapter 13 - The Black Ledger
For three weeks, the Astoria apartment became my world. The billionaire philanthropist who once traded in corporate acquisitions and foundation galas now spent his nights under a dim 60-watt bulb, cross-referencing shipping codes, shell company registrations, and customs manifests alongside a woman who had every reason to put a bullet through my spine.
“Look at this entry,” Nora murmured late one night, sliding a faded ledger page across the oilcloth table. “April 14th. Three container units marked as medical relief supplies cleared customs through Pier 42. But the weight doesn't match.”
I leaned in, tracing the numbers with a calloused thumb. “The cargo weight is off by four thousand pounds per container. Medical supplies don't weigh that much unless they’re packed with lead or military-grade ordnance.”
“Or small arms,” Nora added grimly. “And look at the signature authorizing the customs waiver. It’s not Carmine.”
My blood ran cold. I stared at the signature—a neat, looping scrawl that I had seen on dozens of municipal partnership documents over the past five years.
“District Attorney Thomas Vance,” I whispered, the name tasting like copper in my mouth.
Nora looked up sharply. “Your cousin. The golden boy of the Manhattan D.A.’s office.”
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“He wasn't just a cousin,” I said, the room spinning slightly as the final, darkest puzzle piece clicked into place. “Thomas was the one who cleared the zoning permits for the East River docks when we expanded the shipping lanes back in ’19. I thought he was just doing a family favor. He was protecting the pipeline.”
“And he’s currently running for state attorney general,” Nora said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “With an anti-corruption platform funded entirely by the same corporate donors who sat in your ballroom the night we almost died.”
