Chapter 6 - Shadows in the SnowAs Viktor Rostov was dragged screaming out of the hangar by four massive security guards, the remaining tribunal elders quickly packed their briefcases and hurried toward their private helicopters parked on the tarmac. None of them dared to look Vincent in the eye.
Within ten minutes, the hangar was empty, save for the hum of the overhead heaters and the crunch of snow boots outside.
Vincent let out a long, slow breath, releasing my hand. He turned to me, his expression softening slightly.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice lacking its usual razor-sharp edge.
“I’m fine,” I replied, smoothing the front of my crimson dress. “Though I have to admit, family gatherings in your household are a lot more eventful than mine used to be.”
Vincent let out a short, dry chuckle. “Welcome to the family business. It never gets boring.”
He gestured toward a pair of parked black SUVs waiting near the hangar doors. “Come on. Let’s get you back inside the main house before the wind picks up again. There’s something in the private vault I want to show you—something your mother left behind for you, specifically entrusted to my grandfather before she vanished.”
Ten minutes later, we were standing in the deepest, most heavily secured subterranean vault beneath Belladonna House. Rows of steel safety deposit boxes lined the stone walls, illuminated by warm recessed lighting.
Vincent walked to the far corner, entered a complex biometric and numerical code into a titanium safe, and pulled out a small, velvet-lined wooden box. He carried it over to a central mahogany table and set it down.
“Your mother didn't just carry the locket,” Vincent said, opening the lid. “She left behind a journal. And a key.”
Inside the box lay a worn leather notebook with ivory pages, alongside a heavy, ornate iron key shaped like a double-headed eagle—the crest of the original Moretti estate in Sicily.
I reached out with trembling fingers and lifted the journal. On the first page, written in my mother’s unmistakable handwriting, was a message addressed to me:
‘If you are reading this, Isabella, it means I am gone, and the truth has found you. Do not fear the Moretti name. Wear it like armor. But remember: power is only worth holding if you use it to protect those who cannot protect themselves.’
I blinked back a tear, tracing the ink with my thumb.
“She knew she was dying,” I whispered. “She knew that one day, I would end up here.”
“She knew our family better than anyone,” Vincent said softly, standing beside me. He placed a hand gently on my shoulder. “Which is why she left you the key.”
“The key to what?” I looked up at him.
“To the original Moretti vault in Palermo,” Vincent replied, his eyes dark and resolute. “The one containing the true archives of our family—and the evidence needed to dismantle every corrupt politician, crooked judge, and cartel boss who helped Senator DeMarco try to erase us twenty-eight years ago.”
Before I could answer, the secure communication console on the wall beeped frantically.
Marcus’s voice crackled through the intercom: “Boss! We’ve got an incoming transmission from an encrypted satellite phone. It’s… it’s Senator DeMarco from the wine cellar holding cell. He says he has information about who really ordered the fire on your aunt’s quarters all those years ago. And it wasn't just him.”
May you like
Vincent’s entire body went rigid. The air in the vault turned glacial.
“Put him on speaker,” Vincent commanded.
