Chapter 8 - The Road to Cleveland and the Hidden Ledger
The roar of the twin-engine private jet drowned out our ragged breathing as we soared through the turbulent night sky toward Ohio.
Dominic sat opposite me, allowing a combat medic to stitch the bullet graze on his shoulder without taking anesthesia.
His eyes never left my face, which was pale with terror for the woman who had sacrificed everything to raise me alone.
If Costa harms a single hair on her head, I will dismantle his entire bloodline brick by brick, Dominic stated with venomous certainty.
I looked at him through tears of pure exhaustion, clutching the gold wedding ring that felt heavier than lead.
You still believe she poisoned your father, yet you are risking your life and your soldiers to save her, I whispered.
Dominic leaned back against the leather seat, closing his eyes as the jet banked sharply through a line of storm clouds.
I believe she held the syringe, Clara, but I also know Victor Costa never leaves witnesses unless he owns their silence.
During the chaos at the estate, Enzo had successfully extracted an encrypted digital archive from the fallen mercenary's phone.
The files contained voice recordings between Victor Costa and the hospital administrator who had employed my mother twenty years ago.
Costa had not paid my mother’s nursing school loans as a reward for a contracted assassination.
He had paid the debt off to frame her, leaving a paper trail that pointed directly to her name while threatening my life.
Ellen Evans had discovered Antonio Rossi dying of an unexplained toxin and had desperately tried to administer an antidote.
Costa’s corrupt administrator had altered the medical charts afterward, making her life-saving effort look like lethal malpractice.
My mother had fled New York with me in the dead of night not out of guilt, but to protect her baby daughter from Costa’s cleanup crew.
She never told me because she wanted me to live a normal, quiet life away from the blood-soaked underworld of this city.
Dominic opened his eyes, the murderous fire within them now redirected with absolute, singular clarity toward Victor Costa.
Your mother was never my father’s killer; she was his last defender, Dominic admitted, his voice rough with remorse.
I spent twenty years searching for a ghost to slaughter, only to find the woman who tried to keep my family whole.
The jet touched down on a private airstrip outside Cleveland just as dawn was breaking through the gray industrial smog.
Four armored tactical vans were idling on the tarmac, filled with thirty of the Rossi family's most elite, cold-blooded soldiers.
Enzo racked a heavy shotgun and handed me a small, lightweight automatic pistol with a customized ivory grip.
Keep this inside your coat, Clara; if anyone wearing a red armband approaches you, empty the entire magazine into their chest.
May you like
Dominic adjusted his bulletproof vest, checked his sidearms, and took my cold hand into his massive, calloused palm.
We are going to bring your mother home, Clara, and then I am going to end this war permanently.
