Chapter 4 - The Ghost in the Machine
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By 2:00 AM, the last of the gala guests had departed. The sprawling Blackwood estate was finally quiet, save for the rhythmic crashing of the lake waves against the retaining wall.
Alessandro sat in the dark of his basement command center. The walls were lined with monitors displaying every angle of the property. Standing beside him was Matteo, his head of security and the only man alive who had taken a bullet for him.
“Run her again,” Alessandro commanded, staring at a frozen frame of Genevieve from the ballroom cameras.
Matteo’s fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard. “Boss, we ran her background check when you two started dating. Genevieve Ashworth. Parents died in a plane crash in 2012. Trust fund managed by a firm in Geneva. Clean criminal record. Clean credit.”
“It’s a ghost profile,” Alessandro said flatly. “I want you to dig deeper. Check the death certificates of the parents. Check the Swiss firm. And find me everything you can on her ‘uncle,’ Arthur Vance.”
Matteo typed furiously, bypassing standard databases and slipping into the encrypted networks of the global underworld. For ten minutes, the only sound was the clicking of keys.
Then, Matteo stopped.
“Son of a bitch,” Matteo breathed out.
“What is it?”
“The Swiss firm that manages her trust? It doesn't exist. It’s a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands. And the parents' death certificates are forgeries. The real Genevieve Ashworth died of leukemia when she was nine years old.”
Alessandro leaned forward, resting his elbows on the console. “She stole a dead girl’s identity.”
“It gets worse,” Matteo said, pulling up a new file on the screen. It was an Interpol red notice. The photograph attached was grainy, but it was undeniably the man who had been introduced to Alessandro as Uncle Arthur.
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“Arthur Vance is an alias,” Matteo explained grimly. “His real name is Victor Thorne. He’s a high-level fixer and corporate thief for the Falcone crime syndicate in New York.”
The Falcones. The rival family Alessandro thought he had financially starved out of Chicago five years ago. They hadn't retreated. They had simply changed tactics. They had spent two years grooming the perfect assassin to walk right through his front door.
