Chapter 7 - The Paper Trail
At six o'clock the following morning, the sun rose over the East River in a pale, grey wash of fog.
Gia was sitting at her heavy oak desk in the mezzanine office of her workshop, surrounded by four empty espresso cups and dozens of printed building plans. She hadn't slept a single minute.
On her main computer monitor was a high-resolution public record filing from the New York City Department of Buildings from September 1994.
“Let’s see what you were hiding, Arthur,” Gia muttered, tapping her keyboard as she cross-referenced the blueprinted dimensions of the Vance Auction House with the historical renovation permits filed by Vance Logistics.
As an event designer specializing in historic venues, Gia possessed an expert’s understanding of structural floor plans, load-bearing modifications, and secret architectural additions common in pre-war Manhattan buildings.
Ten minutes later, her screen illuminated a blueprinted cross-section of the auction house’s basement floor.
In 1994, three weeks before Vincenzo Moretti’s death, Arthur Vance had filed a private structural permit to construct a reinforced concrete sub-vault directly beneath the main gallery floor—a room measuring eight feet by twelve feet, accessed via a hidden hydraulic floor panel located beneath the central display pedestal.
The very pedestal where L'Ombra del Padre had rested for thirty years.
Gia leaned back in her office chair, her fingers touching her chin. “The marble torso wasn't the target,” she whispered to the empty room. “It was the key.”
The loud, metallic buzz of her workshop intercom smashed through the quiet of the mezzanine.
Gia jumped slightly, her eyes flicking to the security monitor on her wall.
Standing outside her street gate in the grey morning rain was a tall man in a navy trench coat, holding a heavy leather briefcase. He wasn't one of Dante’s bodyguards, and he certainly wasn't a delivery driver.
Gia clicked the intercom button. “We're closed until nine.”
“Miss Parker?” the man spoke into the speaker, his voice flat, precise, and devoid of emotion. “My name is Harrison Vance. I am the chief legal counsel for the Vance Foundation. I have a formal deposition request regarding last night’s incident.”
Gia’s jaw tightened. She walked down the metal stairs to the main floor, stepped up to the heavy iron security gate, and looked through the reinforced glass window.
“I already gave my statement to Detective Miller,” Gia said through the speaker grill.
“Detective Miller handles criminal investigations, Miss Parker,” Harrison Vance replied, holding up a sleek white envelope sealed with red wax. “My firm handles corporate liability and property recovery. Mrs. Eleanor Vance has authorized me to offer you a confidential settlement regarding your damaged equipment.”
Gia unlocked the side door, stepping into the narrow foyer, but kept the heavy iron gate securely locked between them. “I don't need a settlement, Mr. Vance. I need my equipment returned by the police.”
Harrison Vance smiled—a thin, cold, professional expression that made her skin crawl. “The equipment is irrelevant, Miss Parker. What is relevant is the contents of your rolling crate before the power went out.”
Gia kept her face completely expressionless. “My crate contained curtain rods, clips, and velvet blocks.”
“Are you quite certain?” Harrison asked, stepping half an inch closer to the iron bars. “Because our security footage from the upper corridor shows you standing near the central pedestal forty-five minutes before the auction began, holding a digital measuring tape near the base of the marble torso.”
Gia let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “I was measuring the floor clearance for my foliage garlands, you idiot! It’s called structural planning!”
“Perhaps,” Harrison murmured, opening his leather briefcase and pulling out a single sheet of paper. “Or perhaps you were evaluating the floor load capacity for a secondary party. A party who paid your firm thirty thousand dollars through an offshore account in Grand Cayman three days ago.”
Gia froze. “What are you talking about?”
“A wire transfer was logged into Parker Event Design’s corporate checking account on Tuesday morning,” Harrison said, holding the paper against the glass window. “Originating from Moretti Enterprise Holdings.”
Gia stared at the paper through the glass. Stamped across the top was an official bank confirmation showing her company’s exact checking account number, credited with thirty thousand dollars from an entity called MEH Logistics LLC.
Her stomach plunged into a cold, sickening abyss.
Someone had planted a thirty-thousand-dollar paper trail directly into her business account three days before the auction—framing her as an inside accomplice for Dante Moretti.
“You have three hours to contact my office, Miss Parker,” Harrison Vance said, slipping the paper back into his briefcase and bowing his head slightly. “Before we release this financial record to the FBI Major Case Squad.”
He turned and walked away down the damp sidewalk, his leather shoes clicking loudly against the concrete.
Gia stood alone in the dark foyer, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She pulled Dante Moretti’s anodized steel card from her sweater pocket, her fingers shaking slightly as she dialed the ten-digit number on her phone.
The call didn't even ring twice.
May you like
“Gia,” Dante’s voice answered, calm, low, and instantly present.
“Dante,” she said, her voice dropping into a fierce, terrified thread. “We have a problem.”
