Chapter 3 - The Accountant’s Ledger
The private office of Vance Financial Services on Michigan Avenue was quiet, luxurious, and smelled of polished teak and fine cigars.
Julian Vance sat behind his glass-topped desk, reviewing a series of international wire transfers on a triple-monitor setup. On the wall behind him hung framed degrees from Harvard and the London School of Economics, alongside photographs of Julian sailing off the coast of Newport with influential politicians.
He was sipping an espresso when the door to his office didn't open—it was blown inward with a sharp, explosive crack as Marcus Bell kicked the lock housing straight out of the frame.
Julian jumped up, dropping his porcelain cup onto the Persian rug, black liquid splashing over his expensive leather shoes.
“What the hell is—” Julian began, his voice rising in outrage.
Before he could finish the sentence, Dominic Vale stepped through the ruined doorway.
Dominic didn't look angry. He didn't look frantic. He walked with a slow, unhurried grace, his dark eyes fixed on Julian like a lion targeting an injured gazelle in the tall grass.
Behind him, Marcus closed the damaged door, pulling a heavy brass wedge from his pocket and sliding it firmly under the frame, locking them inside the soundproof room.
“Dominic!” Julian gasped, trying to pull his posture together, his hands trembling slightly as he straightened his silk tie. “What is the meaning of this? If there’s an issue with the Q3 tax filings, we could have discussed it in the board room—”
Dominic walked straight to the desk. He didn't sit down. He rested his large, gloved hands on the glass top, leaning forward until his face was six inches from Julian’s.
“At ten-thirty-four p.m. on Saturday night,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying hum, “you showed my wife a video on your phone.”
Julian’s breath caught in his throat. A tiny bead of sweat instantly broke out along his hair line.
“Dominic... I don't know what you’re talking about,” Julian stammered, backing up until the back of his legs hit his leather executive chair. “I spoke to Mrs. Vale at the gala for two minutes! We discussed the charity auction budget! I showed her a photo of a painting—”
Dominic didn't argue. He reached across the desk, caught Julian by the lapels of his three-thousand-dollar suit jacket, and dragged him over the glass top in a single, fluid, violent motion.
Keyboards, paperweights, and monitor cables crashed onto the floor as Julian was slammed hard against the wood-paneled wall.
Marcus stepped forward smoothly, pulling Julian’s phone from his pocket, tapping the screen, and running a specialized decryption device over the port.
Julian choked, his feet dangling two inches off the floor, Dominic’s gloved hand clamped like an iron vise around his throat.
“You have five seconds to tell me what was on that screen, Julian,” Dominic whispered, his slate-gray eyes entirely black with lethal intent. “Before I break your collarbone.”
“It... it was an archive file!” Julian gasped, his face turning an unhealthy shade of purple, his hands clawing uselessly at Dominic’s wrists. “From... from the 2019 Cicero dispute!”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Which file?”
“The... the interrogation of Thomas Miller!” Julian choked out. “The guy who tried to bomb the South Side terminal!”
Dominic’s mind raced through his ironclad memory.
Thomas Miller. 2019. A corrupt union organizer who had tried to plant explosives at one of Dominic’s freight yards. Dominic had interrogated him in an abandoned brewery basement in Cicero.
“Why would showing her a five-year-old interrogation file make my wife cover every mirror in my home, Julian?” Dominic demanded, tightening his grip just enough to cut off Julian’s air completely.
Marcus, looking at the decrypted files popping up on his handheld reader, let out a low, grim whistle.
“Dominic,” Marcus said, his voice grave. “He edited the file.”
Dominic didn't lower Julian. He kept him pinned to the wall, turning his head slightly toward Marcus. “How?”
“He used a deepfake rendering suite,” Marcus explained, holding up the screen. “He took the raw footage from the Miller interrogation, replaced Miller’s wife in the corner with a digital composite that looks identical to Lydia, and added audio tracks from a federal wiretap script. Then he overlaid a watermark from an active FBI informant file.”
Dominic’s chest heaved. The pieces began to fall into place with a terrifying, agonizing clarity.
Julian hadn't just shown Lydia violence.
He had convinced her that Dominic was a sadist who targeted women like her, that her marriage was a carefully staged lie, and that she was being monitored by federal law enforcement as an unwitting accomplice.
Dominic looked back at Julian, whose eyes were rolling into the back of his head from lack of oxygen.
Dominic dropped him.
Julian collapsed onto the ruined rug, coughing hysterically, gasping for air, clutching his bruised throat.
Dominic stood over him, pulling off his black leather gloves one finger at a time.
“Who paid you to do this, Julian?” Dominic asked, his voice deathly quiet.
Julian curled into a ball on the floor, weeping, his polished facade entirely shattered. “It... it was the Detroit group! Victor Moretti! He offered me two million dollars and immunity in the federal indictment if I could drive a wedge between you and your wife... make her flee to Milwaukee so they could snatch her at the border!”
Dominic stared at the weeping accountant on the floor.
The Detroit Syndicate. Victor Moretti. A rival boss who had been trying to gain a foothold in Chicago’s shipping lines for three years, a man who knew he couldn't beat Dominic in a direct war, so he had targeted the one soft spot in Dominic Vale’s iron armor.
His wife.
“Marcus,” Dominic said, stepping back toward the door.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Clean this office. Take Mr. Vance to the Cicero brewery basement he loves so much. Make sure he stays comfortable until I decide what to do with Victor Moretti.”
“And Mrs. Vale?” Marcus asked quietly.
May you like
Dominic stopped in the doorway, looking at his own hands—hands that had built an empire, hands that had dealt out harsh justice, but hands that had only ever held Lydia with absolute, sacred tenderness.
“I’m going home to unwrap her mirrors,” Dominic said.
