PART 2 The Mafia boss hadn’t slept peacefully in three years

By midnight, the manor was completely dark except for the amber glow of the banker’s lamp on Adrian’s desk.

The titanium drive lay plugged into an air-gapped laptop that Gabriel had brought from his private workstation. Across the screen, thousands of decrypted financial documents from the late 1990s and early 2000s scrolled in cold, glowing green text.

Gabriel rubbed his tired eyes, his breath heavy with exhaustion. “She wasn't bluffing about the Portland docks, Adrian. Your father used an off-balance-sheet partnership to absorb the debt. It was legal under the old maritime codes, but under modern forensic accounting, federal prosecutors could easily frame it as tax evasion and racketeering.”

Adrian leaned over the monitor, his eyes tracking the signatures.

“Look at the dates, Gabriel,” Adrian said, pointing a finger at the bottom right corner of a scanned authorization letter.

Gabriel leaned in closer. “June 14, 2001.”

“Where was my father on June 14, 2001?” Adrian asked, his voice sharp and focused.

Gabriel paused, his brow furrowing as he dug into his encyclopedic memory of the firm’s history. “He was in Milan. He was attending the international maritime symposium with the Italian trade minister. He was out of the country for two weeks.”

“And who had power of attorney on the domestic operating accounts while he was in Europe?”

Gabriel’s eyes widened slightly. “Salvatore.”

Adrian straightened up, a cold, predatory smile touching his lips. “My father didn't authorize this cash transfer. Salvatore forged his signature using the blanket administrative proxy Carlo gave him during the travel window. Salvatore used my father’s name to launder money through the docks to cover his own gambling debts in Atlantic City.”

“Can we prove the forgery after twenty-five years?” Gabriel asked cautiously. “The ink and paper analysis from digital scans won't hold up in an emergency injunction tomorrow morning. If Victoria dumps this to the press, the media won't wait for handwriting experts. They’ll run the headline: Moretti Founder Linked to Mafia Laundering. The reputational damage will be instant and catastrophic.”

“Then we don't let her dump it,” Adrian said.

Suddenly, a faint sound drifted through the heavy oak door of the study—a soft scuffle, followed by the distinctive creak of a floorboard near the service pantry at the end of the east corridor.

Adrian and Gabriel exchanged an immediate, silent look.

Adrian opened the top drawer of his desk, retrieved a compact semi-automatic pistol, and racked the slide with a muted metallic click. He gestured for Gabriel to remain near the laptop, then moved silently toward the corridor.

The hallway was illuminated only by the faint silver moonlight filtering through the arched windows. The house was dead quiet, save for the hum of the central heating.

As Adrian reached the pantry, the sweet, cloying aroma of bergamot and lavender hit his nostrils.

His blood turned instantly to ice.

He rounded the corner with weapon raised. “Don't move.”

Standing near the tea cabinet, illuminated by the small flashlight on an iPhone, was a young woman in the dark navy uniform of the estate’s domestic evening staff. In her left hand, she held a small glass dropper bottle. In her right, she held an open jar of loose-leaf English breakfast tea.

She froze, dropping the glass bottle onto the linoleum floor. It shattered with a sharp snap, releasing an overwhelming burst of concentrated floral scent.

“Hands where I can see them!” Adrian ordered, his voice echoing through the corridor with thunderous authority.

The girl began to tremble violently, raising her hands above her head. “Please! Don't shoot! Please!”

Nora appeared at the far end of the hallway in her bathrobe, her face pale with terror. “Mr. Moretti! What’s happening?”

“Stay in the room with Lily, Nora!” Adrian commanded without breaking eye contact with the intruder. “Lock the door!”

Nora retreated immediately, pulling the heavy bedroom door shut.

Gabriel arrived at Adrian’s shoulder, turning on the overhead pantry lights.

The bright fluorescent glare revealed the girl’s terrified face. She was no older than twenty-two, hired three weeks earlier through a high-end domestic staffing agency in Beacon Hill.

Gabriel knelt down, carefully avoiding the broken glass, and picked up the paper label that had peeled off the shattered dropper bottle.

“Synthetic catecholamines,” Gabriel read aloud, his voice thick with disgust. “The exact same formulation Dominic used.”

Adrian stepped closer, the muzzle of his weapon lowering slightly but remaining firmly pointed at the floor between them. “Who paid you?”

The girl was sobbing hysterically. “I don't know his name! A woman called me two days ago! She said she was with the agency! She said if I put five drops into the private tea canister every night, she would deposit fifty thousand dollars into my student loan account! She said it was just a herbal sleeping aid to help you relax!”

“Her name was Victoria, wasn't it?” Adrian said coldly.

The girl nodded rapidly through her tears. “She... she said she was your family. She said she was helping you.”

Adrian looked at Gabriel. The puzzle pieces had locked into place with terrifying clarity.

“Victoria didn't just want the money tomorrow,” Adrian whispered, his eyes blazing with fury. “She wanted me chemically impaired again. She wanted me back in the fog so I would sign over Sterling Capital without reading the operational covenants, exactly the way Dominic had me sign over Aegis.”

Gabriel stood up, his jaw set in stone. “What do we do with her?”

“Call the state police,” Adrian said, turning back toward the study. “And Gabriel?”