Chapter 5 - The Red File
By four o'clock that afternoon, the house was under high alert.
Three additional black SUVs had pulled into the courtyard, their tires crunching loudly against the gravel. A dozen men in dark coats were moving through the ground floor, checking security cameras, testing window locks, and speaking into tiny radios tucked into their cuffs.
Leo was standing near the main entrance, holding a leather clipboard covered in architectural floor plans.
I walked past him carrying a laundry basket filled with Finn’s clean cotton shirts.
"Harper," Leo called out softly, stepping away from two armed guards.
I stopped near the base of the stairs. "Is something happening?"
"A situation on the West Side," Leo said, his voice low. "One of Marcus’s former lieutenants was picked up by the federal task force two hours ago. We’re locking down the estate for forty-eight hours."
My heart gave a sickening thud. "Federal task force?"
"Standard precaution," Leo said, watching my face closely. "Victor wants all non-essential staff off the property by six o'clock."
I tightened my grip on the laundry basket. "Am I non-essential?"
Leo hesitated, his dark eyes shifting toward the second-floor balcony where Victor was standing, looking down at the foyer with a cell phone pressed to his ear.
"Victor said you stay," Leo said softly. "Finn’s room is being moved to the interior suite on the second floor. No windows. You’ll sleep in the adjacent dressing room."
"Is Finn in danger?"
"Finn is always in danger, Harper," Leo said with a heavy, tired sigh. "He’s Victor Rossi’s only heir. In our world, that makes him the biggest target in Cook County."
I looked up at the balcony.
Victor was watching us. He was wearing his black coat now, his face dark and shadow-draped under the high recessed lighting. When our eyes met, he didn't look away. He slowly lowered his phone, said three words to the guard standing beside him, and walked back into his private suite.
Ten minutes later, I was in the interior guest bedroom, helping Finn arrange his plush animals on a smaller, temporary bed.
The room had no windows, two iron-reinforced doors, and smelled faintly of old leather and cedar.
"I don't like this room," Finn whispered, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his arms crossed over his chest. "It feels like a box."
"It's just a fortress, detective," I said, setting his favorite books on the nightstand. "It’s where kings stay when they’re planning their next mission."
"Is Dad planning a mission?"
"Dad is keeping the bad guys outside," I said, sitting beside him.
He looked up at me, his hazel eyes wide and surprisingly perceptive. "Dad was loud in his office today. I heard him throw the glass."
I paused, my fingers resting on the cover of a picture book. "He was just frustrated, Finn."
"He was shouting at you."
"Grown-ups argue sometimes," I said gently. "It doesn't mean anyone is going to leave."
Finn reached out, his tiny hand catching the hem of my sweater. "If the bad guys come, will you stay in the box with me?"
"I'm not going anywhere," I promised him, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Not even if the sirens come back."
By eight o'clock, the boy was asleep, his breathing heavy and even under the influence of his second dose of the Zurich compound.
I stepped out of his bedroom into the narrow connecting dressing room.
A single desk sat in the corner under a small reading lamp. On top of the mahogany surface sat a thick, crimson folder with the silver Rossi crest stamped on the leather cover.
It hadn't been there when I moved Finn’s clothes in two hours ago.
I stood three feet from the desk, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The folder was unsealed. A single white index card lay on top of the leather cover, bearing three words written in Victor’s sharp, slanted handwriting:
READ IT, HARPER.
My fingers trembled as I reached out and lifted the red leather flap.
Inside sat forty pages of glossy paper, high-resolution photographs, and official government seal reproductions.
The first page was a copy of my true birth certificate.
Evelyn Marie Reed. Born September 14, 1997. Rochester, New York.
The second page was a high-resolution photograph of me taken six years ago in a white laboratory coat at Johns Hopkins Hospital, standing beside the chair of pediatric neurology.
The third page was a copy of the federal indictment from 2022.
United States District Court vs. Vance Clinical Institute. Charge: Conspiracy to manipulate clinical trial data on pediatric neuro-pharmaceuticals.
And tucked into the back flap of the file was a single, typed memorandum from the Department of Justice, dated three weeks ago:
Subject: Dr. Evelyn Reed (Key Witness). Status: Missing / Presumed Deceased. Notes: Subject holds absolute documentation proving the Vance Institute was funded by the Moretti Syndicate to test unapproved neural inhibitors on ward children.
My breath hitched in my throat. My knees gave out, and I slammed my hand against the edge of the desk to keep from falling onto the carpet.
He knew.
Victor knew everything.
He had known my real name, my real background, and the real reason I had fled upstate New York under a dead woman’s social security number.
"You have very impressive credentials, Dr. Reed," a quiet, raspy voice said from the doorway behind me.
I spun around.
Victor was standing in the dark archway connecting the dressing room to the main corridor. He was leaning against the door frame, his black jacket off, his white sleeves rolled up, a fresh tumbler of amber bourbon held loose in his left hand.
"How long?" I whispered, my voice barely audible above the hum of the air filtration system. "How long have you known?"
May you like
Victor took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, his grey eyes gleaming in the dim light of the desk lamp.
"Since the second week you were here," he said softly.
