Chapter 5 - Echoes of the Lost SisterThe glowing amber screen of the master terminal flickered to life, casting an eerie light across the tense faces crowded inside the port director's office. Lines of encrypted shipping data scrolled downward as Charles Vance's shaking fingers punched commands into the console. Every keystroke sounded like a ticking clock counting down the final moments of the Rossi dynasty.
“Here,” Vance whispered, pointing a trembling finger at a highlighted file. “Vessel registration number 44-Delta. The Atlantic Sovereign. Officially registered as carrying industrial dredging equipment for a municipal land reclamation project in Delaware.”
Dante leaned in, his eyes scanning the secondary log codes embedded deep within the metadata. “Dredging equipment doesn't require armed private security mercenaries stationed on the upper deck, Charles. Nor does it require a sealed, climate-controlled vault in the ship's lower ballast.”
“It’s the archive room,” Victoria blurted out, her composure completely shattered as she clutched the edge of the desk. Tears smeared her mascara, ruining her polished socialite image. “It’s... it’s everything. Father kept the original bank transfer ledgers, the wiretap transcripts from the federal prosecutors, and... and the records from the night of Rosa's accident.”
Vincent spun around, snarling at his daughter. “Victoria, shut your damn mouth!”
“No!” Victoria shrieked, breaking down entirely. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in a federal penitentiary while you pretend we can buy our way out of this! Dante, we didn't kill Rosa! It was an accident on the water! She fell overboard when the speedboat hit a rogue wave!”
Dante turned slowly. The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
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“My sister Rosa did not swim, Victoria,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. “She was a competitive swimmer at Princeton. She knew those waters better than anyone on the Atlantic seaboard. And she never, ever went out on the water after dark without her emergency locator beacon—a beacon that was mysteriously disabled thirty minutes before her boat collided with the jetty.”
Teresa watched the exchange, her heart aching for the cold agony carved into Dante’s features. She reached out, gently placing her hand over Dante’s tattooed knuckles resting on the desk. Dante paused, looking down at her hand. The savage tension in his shoulders relaxed just a fraction, replaced by an unshakeable anchor of calm.
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