The Wooden Horse

"That's impossible," I whispered.

Noah was finally sleeping, his head resting on my lap in the diner booth, the wooden horse tight in his grip.

"I saw him buried," Dominic said, staring at the photograph as if it might catch fire. "I carried his casket. He died of a heart attack in his study."

"Then who wrote this?" I asked.

Before he could answer, headlights swept across the diner’s front windows. A black sedan pulled up to the curb. Marco stepped out, looking grim.

Ten minutes later, we were in a heavily fortified penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan. It was a property off the books, registered to a shell company.

Dominic immediately went to a locked safe hidden behind a bookshelf, pulling out files and a laptop.

I sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, watching him. "Dominic. If your father didn't take that photo, someone else did. Someone who knew his handwriting well enough to forge it."

Dominic froze. He slowly turned to look at me.

"Or someone he hired," Dominic said, "who kept tracking you even after he died."

He opened a ledger from the safe. "When my father died, my Uncle Silvio took over the family finances until I was ready. Silvio was the one who pushed the marriage with Vanessa. He said it was the only way to honor my father's dying wish."

He quickly typed onto the laptop. Lines of bank transfers filled the screen.

"Look at this," Dominic said, pointing. "Monthly payments of ten thousand dollars. Going from my father's private account to an offshore shell company. Started five years ago. Never stopped."

"Who is it going to?" I asked, stepping closer.

Dominic hit another key. The screen decoded the routing number.

The name on the account wasn't Vanessa Bellini.

It was Sarah Evans. My sister.

Bile rose in my throat. "She didn't just sell me out once," I whispered, horrified. "She’s been on their payroll for five years. She’s the one who gave them my locations."

Suddenly, the heavy steel door of the penthouse groaned.

Dominic immediately drew his weapon, pushing me behind him.

The door didn't just open. It was violently kicked off its hinges by a massive, gray-haired man in a heavy wool coat.

Three armed men flanked him.

It was Uncle Silvio.

He didn't look like a man coming to rescue his nephew. He looked at Dominic with cold, calculating eyes.

"Put the gun down, Dominic," Silvio commanded.

Dominic didn't lower his weapon. "You're the one paying her sister. You're the one who ordered the hit on my driver tonight."

Silvio laughed softly. "The driver wasn't trying to kill you, nephew. He was trying to kill the girl and the child. I just paid him to do it before Vanessa’s family could get to them."

"Why?" Dominic roared.