Chapter 13 - THE VOICE FROM THE PASTI walked slowly toward the center desk, my boots crunching softly on the gritty stone floor. Resting beside a tarnished silver inkwell was a vintage microcassette recorder, its plastic casing yellowed with age. Next to it lay a small, handwritten note in Sofia’s familiar handwriting:
“If you are listening to this, Damian, it means you found the key. Your father didn't die of a heart attack. And neither did my mother. They buried the truth beneath these very stones.”
My hand trembled slightly as I reached out and pressed the physical play button on the recorder.
For a second, there was only a harsh hiss of magnetic tape static. Then, a voice crackled through the small internal speaker—clear, haunting, and unmistakable. It was my father’s voice, speaking in a low, cold tone, recorded decades ago.
“She knows too much about the land titles, Elena. If the audit goes public, everything we built—everything I sacrificed to give Damian—will be seized by the state. You’re going to take the severance package and leave town tonight. Or you won't leave at all.”
A woman’s voice—younger, terrified, yet defiantly sharp—responded through the speaker:
“You’re a monster, Arthur Vance. And your son will find out what you’re standing on. Every brick of this house is stained with blood.”
Click.
The tape stopped. The silence that followed in the damp underground vault felt suffocating, pressing down on my chest like a physical weight. Every luxury I had ever enjoyed, every dollar in my bank accounts, every square inch of Greystone Manor—it was all built upon a foundation of extortion, greed, and murder.
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Marco watched me closely, his hand resting instinctively near his holster. “Mr. Vance... what do you want to do?”
“We dig,” I said, my voice cold, hard, and devoid of any emotion. “Every square foot of this cellar. If my father buried the past down here, we’re going to drag it up into the sunlight.”
