Chapter 18 - Midnight at the Archives
The city was asleep when our helicopter touched down on the rooftop helipad of the Moretti-Kingsley Center in Manhattan.
The heavy autumn rain was lashing against the glass skyscrapers, casting eerie, distorted reflections across the empty streets below. Dominic stepped out first, pulling a tactical sidearm from a concealed shoulder holster—a precaution he hadn't needed in two years, but one that now felt chillingly necessary.
He offered me his hand. I took it without hesitation. I wasn't the terrified woman who used to hide her morning sickness in a corporate breakroom. I was a mother, a founder, and a survivor.
We descended into the building via the private elevator, bypassing the security gates directly into Archive Level B.
The heavy steel fire doors of the archive room stood slightly ajar. A faint, flickering yellow light spilled out into the concrete hallway, accompanied by the distinct smell of burning paper.
“Stay behind me,” Dominic whispered, raising his weapon as he pushed the door open with his foot.
We stepped into the room.
Rows of towering metal shelving units stretched into the shadows, filled with binders and ledgers. In the center aisle, a small pile of documents was actively smoldering on the floor, flames licking at the edges of a metal wastebasket.
Standing beside the fire, holding a heavy leather-bound ledger, was an old man.
He wore a tailored wool trench coat, his silver hair neatly combed, leaning heavily against a polished mahogany cane.
Arthur Kingsley.
He didn't look defeated. He looked terrifyingly calm.
“Arthur,” Dominic said coldly, his weapon still raised, steady and unyielding. “Drop the book.”
Arthur slowly turned his head, his pale blue eyes fixing on us with a chilling, predatory gleam. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips as he tossed the ledger onto the burning pile.
“Moretti,” Arthur rasped, his voice smooth and steady despite his age. “And Claire. I must admit, I expected you to arrive five minutes sooner. Your security protocols are slipping.”
“You’re trespassing on federal property, Arthur,” I stepped out from behind Dominic, my voice ringing clear and cold through the cavernous archive room. “And you’re actively destroying evidence connected to an ongoing federal investigation. You’re going straight back to a prison cell—this time, without bail.”
Arthur smiled—a thin, ugly smirk that bore an uncanny resemblance to his disgraced son’s.
“Prison cell?” Arthur echoed, taking a slow step forward. “My dear Claire, do you really think a man of my standing, with connections that span continents and decades, would ever spend a single night behind bars? My son was a fool. He let his ego cloud his judgment. But I built Kingsley Industries from the dirt, and I am not about to let a disgruntled former employee and a tech startup billionaire erase my legacy.”
“Your legacy was destroyed the day your son’s medical lies came to light,” Dominic snapped, stepping closer, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. “It’s over, Arthur. The foundation holds the controlling shares, the federal marshals have your financial records, and you have nowhere left to run.”
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Arthur didn't flinch. Instead, his smile widened into something truly unsettling.
“Nowhere left to run?” Arthur repeated softly. “My dear boy... I haven't been running at all. I’ve been leading you right where I wanted you.”
