Part 2: The Check is Due
I stood up, smoothing down the front of my dress.
“Elena, sit down!” my mother pleaded, her tears finally looking real now—tears of sheer embarrassment. “You can’t leave us like this! We don’t have that kind of money on us! Your father’s business…” She bit her lip, catching herself before she admitted the truth out loud.
“Your father’s business is bankrupt, Mother,” I finished the sentence for her. “I know. I’ve seen the public filings. That’s why you called me after three years of silence. It was never about moving forward. It was never about Grandma Sofia. It was about using me to bail out Vanguard Logistics.”
My father stood up, his chair screeching against the hardwood floor. He reached out to grab my arm, his face distorted with rage. “You little—”
Before his fingers could touch my fabric, two large, burly men in dark suits stepped out from the shadows near the kitchen doors. Bellmont House security. They didn’t say a word, but their physical presence was enough to make my father instantly freeze in place.
“Thank you for the dinner,” I said, looking around at the terrified, pale faces of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and brother. “It was wonderful catching up.”
I turned on my heel and began walking toward the grand exit of the restaurant. The click of my heels felt incredibly powerful against the silent room. I could hear my father screaming my name behind me, followed by the frantic whispers of my family trying to figure out who had a credit card that wasn’t maxed out.
I reached the heavy oak front doors, the cool night air of the Chicago River kissing my face. I felt lighter than I had in years. It was over. The trap had snapped shut, but they were the ones caught inside it.
I stepped onto the sidewalk and raised my hand to hail a taxi.
But before a cab could pull up, a sleek, black luxury SUV with tinted windows screeched to a halt right in front of me. The driver’s side door flew open, and a man in a dark trench coat stepped out. He didn’t look like restaurant security. He looked dangerous.
He walked straight toward me, ignoring the valets, and pulled a heavy, wax-sealed manila envelope from his jacket.
“Elena Vance?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.
“Yes?” I asked, stepping back, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.
“Your grandmother Sofia didn’t leave you an investment account,” the man whispered, pressing the heavy envelope into my hands. “She left you a key. And they know you have it. Look across the street.”
I turned my head toward the dark promenade of the Chicago River. Standing under a flickering streetlamp was a figure wrapped in a long coat, staring directly at me. As the light hit their face, my breath caught in my throat.
It was impossible.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3…
