Chapter 4 - The House on Lake Geneva
By 11:00 a.m., the sky over Northern Illinois had turned into a solid sheet of iron grey.
Victor’s black SUV raced north along Highway 12 toward Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, pushing past ninety miles per hour through the swirling lake-effect snow. In the passenger seat, Marcus was frantically tapping away at an encrypted laptop connected to the state property registry.
"I found something, Victor!" Marcus reported, his fingers flying across the keys. "A small residential property in Williams Bay on the west shore of Lake Geneva. It was purchased eleven months ago through an anonymous Delaware LLC named Blue Sky Holdings."
Victor kept his hands glued to the steering wheel, his knuckles white. "Who registered the LLC?"
"The registered agent is an attorney named Arthur Sterling," Marcus said. "He’s the senior managing partner at Sterling & Sterling in Chicago. He’s been your family’s private probate lawyer for twenty years."
Arthur Sterling.
The man who handled the Rinaldi family trusts, the estate distributions, and the confidential corporate holdings that Victor’s late father had set up three decades ago.
"Call Frank," Victor ordered sharply. "Have him bring Sterling to my private office at the docks. I want him sitting in a chair by the time I get back to the city."
"Victor, look," Marcus pointed through the snow-caked windshield.
Ahead, tucked behind a thick line of snow-covered pine trees, sat a modest two-story wooden cabin overlooking the frozen expanse of Lake Geneva. A faint curl of grey smoke rose from the stone chimney.
Victor slammed on the brakes, the heavy SUV sliding to a smooth stop in the deep snow lining the long driveway.
He didn't wait for Marcus. He pushed his door open, pulled his heavy coat around his shoulders, and walked briskly through the knee-deep snow toward the front porch.
His heart hammered violently against his ribs.
She’s here, he thought desperately. She came to the property Sterling set up for her.
He reached the front porch, drew his weapon, and kicked the front door open.
"Nora!" he shouted, stepping into the warm, wood-paneled living room.
The cabin was fully furnished. A fire was burning softly in the brick fireplace. On the small kitchen table sat two empty coffee mugs and a half-eaten plate of toast.
But there were no baby bottles. No cribs. No infant heart monitors humming in the corner.
Sitting in a rocking chair beside the fire, quietly sipping a cup of chamomile tea, was an elderly woman wearing a hand-knit woolen cardigan.
It was Clara Sterling—Arthur Sterling’s seventy-two-year-old sister.
She slowly set her tea down on the side table, looking up at Victor with calm, unblinking eyes.
"You're thirty minutes late, Victor," Clara said softly, her voice carrying the quiet dignity of a woman who had seen three generations of dangerous men come and go.
Victor lowered his gun slightly, his grey eyes sweeping the empty room. "Where is my wife, Clara? Where are my children?"
"Nora isn't here, Victor," Clara replied smoothly, smoothing her skirt. "She was here four hours ago. She fed the babies, changed their clothes, warmed their milk by this fire, and then she left."
Victor stepped forward, his boots leaving wet, dark footprints on the rug. "Where did she go?!"
Clara looked at him with profound pity. "She left for a place where your money cannot buy keys, Victor. And where your name carries no authority."
May you like
She reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a small silver USB drive, setting it on the wooden table beside her tea.
"Nora asked me to give you this," Clara said quietly. "She said if you were still the man she married, you would watch it alone. And if you weren't... you would burn it."
