Chapter 25 Chapter 25

Chapter 25 Chapter 25
Elara’s POV. 

The master suite was looking ransacked. Every floorboard had been pried up with a crowbar, and the lining of my mattress was shredded, the white stuffing looking like snow over the wreckage of my life. My vanity had been smashed, the back panel splintered where I had hidden the only leverage I had left.

"Stop," Dante commanded.

The screen froze. A figure in a standard black uniform was moving through the frame. He knew exactly where the cameras were. He ducked his head, but for a split second, the infrared light caught the bridge of his nose and a jagged scar on his chin.

"Marco?" Dante’s voice was a low, dangerous hiss.

"Who is Marco?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"One of my best," Dante said, his face turning a shade of red. "A lead on the perimeter detail. He’s been with us for five years. He knows every blind spot in this house."

"He didn't just break in," I said, pointing at the screen. "He knew where the journal was. He didn't even check the safe, he just went straight for the vanity."

Dante turned to the guards behind us. "Find him. I don't care if he’s off the property. If he’s breathing, bring him to the holding room. If he isn't, bring me his head."

Ten minutes later, Marco was dragged into the basement security hub. His uniform was torn, and his left eye was swollen shut, the skin already turning a deep purple. One of the guards kicked his legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees on the concrete floor.

Dante stepped into the light, his shadow looming over the man. He didn't say a word. He just backhanded him across the face. 

Marco spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. He looked exhausted, his breathing heavy and rattling.

I stepped forward, moving past Dante. I needed to see his face clearly. "Why steal it, Marco? You’ve been paid well for years. Who bought you?"

Marco looked up at me, his one good eye squinting through the blood. "I wasn't stealing it, Mrs. Moretti."

"You ripped my room apart," I said. "You took the only record of the Rossi betrayal. That’s theft."

"I was saving it," Marco said.

Dante laughed, a cold, dry sound. "Saving it? By taking it out of the most secure estate on the East Coast? Who did you save it for, Marco? Vittorio? The Petrovs?"

"Neither," Marco rasped. "I saw the ping on the external server. I handle the digital sweep for the perimeter. Someone was already inside your cloud, Dante. They were looking for her."

"Explain," I demanded.

"Someone inside the police department filed a subpoena request this morning," Marco said, wincing as he shifted his weight. "It wasn't for the Syndicate’s records. It was for yours, Elara. Specifically, your family’s psychiatric files from the state archives."

I felt the blood drain from my face. My father. The ghosts I had tried to bury for a decade were being dug up.

"My dad had a mental illness," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "He was a paranoid schizophrenic. He spent half his life in a padded cell before he... before he ended it."

"Exactly," Marco said. "And the request was flagged as 'Evidence of Hereditary Instability.' They aren't coming for you with guns, Dante. They’re preparing to publicly declare her insane. If they get those records, they can argue that her testimony against Isabella is the product of a delusional mind. They can invalidate her role in the financial arm of the Syndicate before she even signs the first ledger. They'll have her committed to a state hospital and take the child as a ward of the court."

The room went silent. 

"They're trying to destroy my credibility," I said. "If I’m 'unfit,' I lose the board’s trust, I lose the baby, I lose everything."

Lorenzo, who had been standing in the corner, let out a long, low whistle. "Jesus. Our family tree is basically a crime scene, but this? Fucking hell."

Marco looked at Lorenzo and gave a grim, bloody smirk. "You should see the police department. It's a lot dirtier than your garden, kid."

"Where is the journal now?" Dante asked, his voice calmer.

"In a safe deposit box at the Greyhound station," Marco said. "I didn't want it in the house. If the feds raid this place with a warrant, they’ll seize everything. Now, it’s off the grid. I was going to give you the key tonight, but your boys are a bit jumpy."

I sank into a plastic chair, my head in my hands. 

"They’re going after my medical license," I muttered. "They’re going to use my father’s suicide to prove I’m a ticking time bomb."

"It’s a legal war," Dante said, pacing the small room. "Vittorio. He doesn't want to kill you yet. He wants to delegitimize you."

"Who filed the request, Marco?" I asked, looking up. "Was it a Rossi lawyer?"

Marco shook his head, a drop of blood falling from his chin. "No. That’s the problem. It didn't come from a law firm. It came from a high-ranking official in the Major Crimes Unit."

"Names," Dante growled. "I want a name."

Marco took a ragged breath, looking directly at me. He knew what he was about to say would break the last bit of peace I had left.

"The records request was signed and filed by Detective Miller," Marco said.

My breath hitched.

"Miller?" I whispered. "Are you sure?"

"He’s the one," Marco said. "He’s been sitting on your file for years, Elara."

"Dante," I said, my voice trembling. "Miller is the same cop who falsified my psychiatric report after my father died. I was eighteen. He tried to have me forcibly sent to a state rehab facility because he claimed my father's disorder was already showing in me. He said I was a danger to myself."

"Why?" Dante asked. "What did an eighteen-year-old student have that a detective wanted?"

"It wasn't what I had," I said, the memory flooding back in a nauseating wave. "It was what I saw. My father didn't just kill himself, Dante. He was being shaken down by cops for protection money he didn't have. Miller was one of them. He wanted me silenced so I wouldn't talk to Internal Affairs. He tried to lock me away in a madhouse to bury the truth."

I stood up, the adrenaline replaced by a cold, sharpened fury. "And now he’s back, working for Vittorio."

"Or Vittorio is working for him," Dante said.

Marco coughed,"There’s one more thing. Miller didn't just request the old files, he also filed a new affidavit this afternoon. He’s claiming he has a 'confidential witness' who can testify that you've had a psychotic break inside this house."

"Who?" I asked.

Marco looked at the door, then back at me.
"He’s at the precinct right now," Marco said. "He’s giving his statement. He claims he saw you talking to people who weren't there and you tried to hurt yourself."

"Marco, who is the witness?" Dante roared.

"It’s Julian Vane," Marco said. "Your lab partner. He’s telling them you’re obsessed with him. He’s telling them the baby is his and that you’ve threatened to kill yourself if he doesn't take you away from Dante."

"He's not a witness," I said, my voice cracking. 

Dante turned toward the door. "Get the cars. We’re going to the precinct."

"No," I said, grabbing his arm. "If you go there and start shooting, you prove Miller right. You prove I’m married to a madman and that I need to be 'saved' by the state."

"Then what do we do?" Dante asked.

"We go to Julian," I said. "Before Miller moves him to a safe house."

Marco let out a weak, raspy laugh. "Too late for that, Mrs. Moretti."

"Why?"

"Because Miller didn't take him to a safe house," Marco said. "He took him to the psychiatric wing at Bellevue. The same wing your father died in. And Miller just signed the order for your emergency transport."

As if on cue, the heavy sirens began to wail at the end of the long driveway, the blue and red lights reflecting off the basement windows.

"Dante," I whispered.

"Nobody is taking you," Dante said, drawing his weapon.

"If you fight them, they take the baby," I said. "That’s the trap."

The front doors upstairs crashed open. A voice boomed through the house over a megaphone.

"This is Detective Miller! We have a court-ordered emergency warrant for Elara Vance! Open the doors or we will use lethal force!"

Dante looked at me, his finger on the trigger. "I'll kill him," Dante hissed.

"No," I said, taking the gun from his hand and setting it on the table. "You’re going to let them take me. And then you’re going to find Sloane, my friend.”

"Elara, don't," Dante pleaded.

The door was kicked open. A man in a cheap suit and a trench coat stepped in, holding a piece of paper. 

"Detective Miller," I said, standing tall.

"Elara," he said, a sick smile spreading across his face. "You look just like your dad."

He gestured to the two paramedics behind him holding a straitjacket.

"Let's go," Miller said. "It's time for your check-up."