Chapter 6 - The Sorrento Ledger
We moved down the wet granite stairwell in absolute tactical silence, the bright white beams of six tactical lights illuminating every damp stone and rusted iron fixture along the walls.
We passed the central chamber where Grace had been held, stepping into the dark, narrow tunnel that snaked west toward the Charles River.
The floor of the tunnel was lined with old iron trolley tracks installed in the late 19th century for moving coal from the river docks into the estate basements. But alongside the old tracks lay modern, high-speed fiber-optic data cables and reinforced digital server racks mounted against the damp brickwork.
Dante stopped, shining his light onto a rack of active server blades humming softly in the dark.
“Boss,” Dante noted, his voice sharp with professional concern. “These are high-frequency offshore financial relays. Someone is routing untraceable cryptocurrency transfers through your house foundation. Hundreds of millions of dollars.”
I looked at my uncle. Dominic was sweating profusely, his hands trembling as he stared at the floor.
“Where does the money come from, Dominic?” I asked, stepping up to him.
“It’s… it’s corporate restructuring funds,” Dominic lied, his voice cracking. “It’s legal!”
I grabbed him by the throat, shoving his head back against the brick wall beside an active server unit. “Grace found letters from my mother in the attic. My mother died in 1988. Why were there letters dated 1986 in a hidden chest?”
Dominic choked, clutching at my wrists. “Your mother… your mother wasn't who you thought she was, Roman! She wasn't just a girl from North End! She was Eleanor Vance… daughter of the Vance shipping empire!”
I stared at him, my grip on his throat loosening slightly as a sudden, sickening realization washed over me.
Vance Shipping had been our primary corporate rival in New England during the 1980s—a massive maritime conglomerate that had mysteriously collapsed into bankruptcy in 1989 following the tragic disappearance of its heiress, Eleanor Vance.
My father had told me my mother’s name was Mary.
My entire childhood had been built upon a manufactured identity.
“Your father didn't marry a local girl, Roman,” Dominic confessed raspy, coughing as I released his throat. “He kidnapped Eleanor Vance in 1985 to force her father into transferring thirty percent of the port terminal deeds to the Duca family! When she had you in eighty-eight… she tried to escape through this very tunnel!”
May you like
“And what did you do to her?” I demanded, my voice shaking with an unmanageable rage.
Dominic didn't answer. He turned his eyes slowly toward the end of the tunnel, where a heavy, solid-steel blast door sat embedded in twelve inches of reinforced concrete.
