Chapter 3 - The Dead Man Who Signed Last Month
My father was either alive or someone had learned to imitate his handwriting perfectly.
Neither possibility made me feel safe.
I stood beside Adrian's desk while his attorney examined the document.
The Vescari library was enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves.
A marble fireplace.
Windows overlooking the dark cedar trees.
Yet all I could see was my father's signature.
Daniel Vale.
A name I'd spent eleven years trying to forget.
Adrian watched me.
"Are you certain?"
I nodded.
"Dad used to put a tiny black bird beside important figures."
"Why?"
"He said numbers could be changed, but a person's habits were harder to copy."
The attorney enlarged the signature.
There it was.
A small bird drawn beneath the last number.
Adrian leaned forward.
"Could this have been copied from an older document?"
"Yes," the attorney answered. "We need the original and independent authentication."
I appreciated that.
For once, someone in this house was willing to admit uncertainty.
Then Adrian asked me something unexpected.
"What happened to your father?"
I took a breath.
"He disappeared when I was seventeen."
"Did anyone investigate?"
"Police took a report. They said there was no evidence of a crime."
"And your mother?"
"She died five years later."
Adrian's expression softened.
"I'm sorry."
I looked away.
I didn't want sympathy from a billionaire who barely knew my name.
I wanted the truth.
Then his phone rang.
One of his security officers.
Adrian answered.
His expression changed.
"Where?"
A pause.
"Send it."
He ended the call.
"What happened?" I asked.
He looked toward the attorney.
"Paolo Ricci's death is being reviewed."
My stomach tightened.
The European liaison.
The man whose sudden death started this entire negotiation.
Adrian continued.
"Investigators found evidence that his medical records may have been altered."
The attorney looked up sharply.
"Altered how?"
"Someone changed the time of his final appointment."
I stared.
"What does that mean?"
Adrian looked toward Vincent's empty chair.
"It means Paolo may have met someone shortly before he died."
Then he placed a photograph on the desk.
A hotel security image.
Paolo stood near an elevator beside a man wearing a gray coat.
The image was grainy.
But the man's face was visible.
I recognized him immediately.
My knees weakened.
"Dad?"
Adrian stared.
"That's Daniel Vale?"
I nodded.
Tears filled my eyes.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakably my father.
He was alive.
And he'd met Paolo Ricci only hours before the man died.
Then Adrian received another message.
This one contained a short video.
My father sat in a dimly lit room.
His wrists were restrained.
His face was bruised.
He looked directly into the camera.
"Mara," he whispered.
My heart stopped.
"If you ever see this, don't trust Vincent Moretti."
Then he looked toward someone outside the frame.
And said something that made Adrian go completely still.
"Your boss isn't the man who owns the Vescari empire."
The video ended.
May you like
And beneath it appeared a single line.
Ask Adrian what happened to his brother.
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