Chapter 2 - The Forged Signature in the Rain
The dining room fell into a silence so absolute I could hear the rain lashing against the massive bay windows.
Thirty wealthy guests were frozen in their seats.
Dominic slowly released his grip on the back of his chair.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw his champagne glass.
Instead, he took one slow, terrifying step toward Victoria.
“You showed him a letter,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. “With my signature.”
Victoria’s confidence wavered, but she kept her chin high.
“It was for the best, Dominic. He’s an old man. He doesn’t fit into the world we are building. The syndicate, the politicians, the investors—they need to see you as a ruthless leader, not a sentimental boy clutching his grandfather’s hand!”
Dominic didn’t look at her face. He looked at her diamond engagement ring.
“How did you get my signature, Victoria?”
She swallowed hard.
“I… I had my father’s lawyers draft it. We used a digital copy from your estate planning files.”
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
In Dominic’s world, forging a mafia boss’s signature was a death sentence. It meant unauthorized access to his most secure files. It meant a betrayal from within.
Dominic turned to his head of security.
“Marcus.”
The massive bodyguard stepped forward immediately. “Yes, boss.”
“Lock down the Bellini family accounts. All of them. And escort my fiancée to the guest wing. She doesn’t leave this house until I find out exactly what else her father’s lawyers have forged.”
Victoria’s face drained of all color.
“Dominic, you can’t do this! We’re getting married! We’re merging the families!”
“We aren’t doing anything,” Dominic said coldly.
He ripped the expensive silk tie from the table—the one he had taken off—and threw it onto Victoria’s empty plate.
“The wedding is off.”
Victoria screamed as Marcus grabbed her arm, dragging her out of the dining room in her ruined red gown.
Dominic didn’t watch her go. He turned to me.
“Rachel. You said he was going to the bus station?”
“Yes, sir,” I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs. “The Port Authority terminal.”
“Come with me. I need you to identify the bus.”
We practically ran out of the mansion. The cold New York rain was coming down in sheets. Dominic didn’t wait for his driver; he tossed me into the passenger seat of his black SUV and took the wheel himself.
The tires screamed against the wet asphalt as we tore through the Manhattan streets.
Dominic’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were stark white. The black cotton tie his grandfather had sewn was still knotted crookedly around his collar.
“He’s eighty-one,” Dominic whispered, staring at the road. “His heart is failing. He’s not supposed to be out in the cold.”
“We’ll find him, sir,” I said quietly.
We reached the Port Authority terminal in under ten minutes. Dominic parked illegally on the curb, leaving the SUV running.
The terminal was a massive, chaotic sea of people, fluorescent lights, and echoing announcements.
“Split up,” Dominic ordered. “Check the departure gates for upstate routes.”
I ran through the crowded terminal, my housekeeping apron still tied around my waist. I pushed past businessmen and tourists, scanning the wooden benches.
And then, I saw him.
Sitting on a cold metal bench near Gate 42.
Frank’s cheap brown suit was completely soaked from the rain. He was shivering violently, clutching his small brown suitcase to his chest.
“Frank!” I yelled, running toward him.
The old man looked up. His face was pale, his lips tinted blue from the cold.
“Rachel, sweetheart?” he rasped, coughing weakly. “What are you doing here? You’ll lose your job.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” I said, kneeling in front of him and rubbing his freezing hands.
Suddenly, a heavy shadow fell over us.
Dominic stopped perfectly still in the middle of the terminal.
He stared at the old man who had raised him. He looked at the mismatched buttons on the wet suit. He looked at the trembling hands.
Frank looked up, and tears instantly filled his gentle eyes.
“Dominic,” the old man whispered. “I’m so sorry, my boy. I didn’t mean to ruin your party.”
Dominic dropped to his knees on the filthy terminal floor. The most feared man in New York buried his face in his grandfather’s wet shoulder and wept.
“I didn’t write it, Grandpa,” Dominic choked out, wrapping his arms around the fragile old man. “I swear to God, I never wrote that letter. I want you at my table. I want you everywhere.”
Frank closed his eyes, a profound relief washing over his tired face. He rested his trembling chin on Dominic’s head.
“I knew it,” Frank whispered, smiling through his tears. “I knew my boy wouldn’t send me away.”
Dominic pulled back, taking off his expensive suit jacket and wrapping it around Frank’s shivering shoulders.
“We’re going home,” Dominic said fiercely. “Right now.”
But Frank didn’t stand up.
He clutched his small brown suitcase tighter, shaking his head.
“I can’t, Dominic,” Frank coughed. “I didn’t just leave because of the letter.”
Dominic frowned, wiping the rain and tears from his face. “What do you mean?”
Frank looked terrified. He glanced around the bustling terminal as if expecting someone to step out of the shadows.
“Victoria didn’t just forge a letter,” Frank whispered, his voice trembling with sheer panic. “She took the photograph, Dominic. The one I brought for you.”
Dominic went completely still.
“What photograph?”
May you like
Frank’s breath hitched. He reached into his wet pocket and pulled out a small, velvet ring box. But it was empty.
“The photograph of your mother,” Frank sobbed. “The one showing who was really driving the car the night your parents died.”
