Chapter 7 - A Kiss Before the Betrayal
By Saturday afternoon, I had developed a plan so legally complicated and personally dangerous that even Griffin Castellano looked concerned.
Which, considering his profession, felt like an achievement.
"We cannot simply storm into Adrian's warehouse," I told him.
"I wasn't suggesting that."
"Marco was."
From the doorway, Marco shrugged.
"I suggested exploring our options."
"With six armed men?"
"Efficient exploration."
Griffin almost smiled.
I turned my laptop toward them.
"Adrian wants the Bellwether ledger. That means he believes it exists and contains information damaging enough to threaten him."
"Correct," Griffin said.
"Then we need to establish what makes that ledger different from the documents we already have."
I enlarged the photograph my anonymous source had sent.
The forged signature belonged to Thomas Castellano.
But another signature sat underneath.
R. Holloway.
My father.
I stared at it.
"He's listed as the independent auditor."
Griffin leaned forward.
"Yes."
"But look at the formatting."
I enlarged the bottom corner.
The document contained two registration numbers.
One belonged to Bellwether.
The second belonged to a trust.
HOLLOWAY FAMILY EDUCATIONAL TRUST.
My breath caught.
I had never heard of it.
Griffin looked equally surprised.
"Does that name mean anything to you?"
"No."
I searched the public registry.
The trust had been established seventeen years earlier.
Its administrator?
Charles Whitmore.
Its listed beneficiary?
Grace Elizabeth Holloway.
Me.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
"Why would my father create a trust without telling my mother?"
Griffin studied the screen.
"Maybe he didn't."
"What do you mean?"
"Look at the establishment date."
November sixth.
Two days after Thomas Castellano's death.
One day before my father's fatal accident.
Someone had created a trust in my name shortly before he died.
But no funds had ever been distributed.
The account appeared dormant.
"This isn't a normal educational trust," I whispered.
"It's a hiding place."
I looked at Griffin.
"For what?"
He tapped the second registration number.
"Evidence."
For the next three hours, we traced corporate filings, historical ownership records, and archived banking references.
Every discovery pointed toward the same conclusion.
Robert Holloway had realized that someone was using Bellwether to conceal unauthorized transfers.
Unable to safely expose the scheme, he had created a financial structure tied to his daughter's identity.
Mine.
The missing ledger wasn't necessarily a physical book.
It might be an encrypted archive.
And I might hold the only legitimate authority to retrieve it.
I sat back, exhausted.
"Adrian doesn't want to kill me because of the deposition."
Griffin shook his head.
"He wants to stop you from accessing what your father left behind."
"Then why send men to shoot us?"
"Because he knew I'd interfere."
A silence stretched between us.
I studied the man opposite me.
He had barely slept.
His injured arm was stiff.
Yet every time someone entered the study, his first instinct was to look toward me.
"Why did you really approach me at JFK?" I asked quietly.
He looked up.
"I told you."
"You told me my name was on a list."
"Yes."
"That doesn't explain why you personally went to the airport."
He leaned back.
For a moment, the feared Griffin Castellano looked less like a Mafia boss and more like a tired man carrying something heavy.
"Because your father once saved my life."
I froze.
"What?"
"I was twenty-four. There was an investigation involving one of my father's companies. Your father discovered that someone had forged records placing me at a meeting I never attended."
"He corrected them?"
"At considerable personal risk."
Griffin looked down.
"He told me something I've never forgotten."
"What?"
"One day, somebody innocent will need you to do the right thing. Make sure you recognize the moment."
My eyes burned.
"He said that?"
Griffin nodded.
"Last night, when I saw your name, I recognized it."
I turned away.
For seventeen years, I had measured my father's life by the things he'd left behind: photographs, books, the little blue house my mother eventually sold.
Now I was discovering that his kindness had continued working long after his death.
Griffin approached.
"Grace."
I looked up.
He gently touched my cheek.
The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that my breath caught.
"You don't have to carry this alone."
"Neither do you."
His eyes searched mine.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then I kissed him.
It wasn't planned.
It wasn't sensible.
It was a brief, trembling collision between exhaustion, grief, gratitude, and something I had been trying very hard not to acknowledge.
When I pulled away, Griffin remained perfectly still.
"That," he said quietly, "complicates matters."
I laughed softly.
"My entire life is currently a complication."
He brushed a loose strand of hair from my face.
"Grace, there are things about me you won't like."
"I already know."
"I'm not a good man simply because I helped you."
"I didn't say you were."
"Then what are you saying?"
I looked into his eyes.
"That I want to find out who you could become."
Something changed in his expression.
He kissed my forehead.
And for one fragile moment, the world outside the mansion disappeared.
Then Marco entered.
"Boss. We found Elena Ward."
Griffin stepped away.
"Where?"
"She was transferred from the hospital an hour ago."
"By whom?"
Marco hesitated.
"Federal agents."
I felt relief.
Until he continued.
"The transfer authorization was signed by Special Agent Naomi Brooks."
Griffin went completely still.
"Impossible."
"Why?" I asked.
He looked at Marco.
"Because Naomi Brooks called me twenty minutes ago."
My stomach tightened.
Marco continued.
"She's been in Washington since yesterday."
May you like
Someone had impersonated a federal agent.
And Elena Ward, the only surviving witness to a seventeen-year-old conspiracy, was now missing.
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