Chapter 163
Chapter 163
A few seconds passed before Sophie looked up at Dahlia, her gaze carrying an intensity that hadn't been there before. "Dahlia, I didn't help you for nothing. You may have just done me a huge favor."
---
The Visconti Group.
Mireille had been at the Visconti Group for less than two weeks, and she'd already mapped out the company's financials.
She sat at a temporary workstation in the project team's area, a three-year financial summary spread open before her. She'd pulled it from the internal system under the guise of project research—no one had questioned her access request.
She turned the pages one by one, her gaze lingering on the key figures.
The Visconti Group was far wealthier than she'd imagined.
Cash flow was robust. Fixed assets were massive. The company held several parcels of prime real estate in the city center—the estimated value of those lots alone was staggering.
Efrain had been quietly siphoning funds for years, but relative to the Visconti Group's total assets, what he'd skimmed was a drop in the ocean.
Mireille closed the folder and leaned back, her eyes drifting to the ceiling light as her mind raced.
Amara had sent her to get close to Ulysses—to monitor him, keep him in check, ensure he wouldn't interfere with their fund transfers.
But Mireille knew the truth. The cut Amara was offering her was nothing compared to the prize the Visconti Group represented.
Why should she settle for crumbs?
If she could use Ulysses to access the Visconti Group's inner circle of decision-makers—position herself strategically on this chessboard—she could break free of Amara's control entirely and play the game on her own terms.
The thought took root.
Once it surfaced, there was no pushing it back down.
She stood, picked up her phone, and sent Ulysses a message.
[Mr. Visconti, I'm heading out to meet a client. Call me if you need anything.]
Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed her bag and left the building.
---
Inside a boutique coffee shop.
In the private room, a man of about sixty was already waiting. Hayden Smith wore a navy mandarin-collar jacket, his hair silver-streaked, his face lean and angular. His eyes were half-closed as if dozing—the picture of a serene elder unbothered by the world.
But Mireille knew better. This man was anything but simple.
He was the Visconti Group's third-largest shareholder. His stake was surpassed only by Heath's and one other co-founder's, giving him considerable sway on the board.
"Mr. Smith, sorry to keep you waiting."
Mireille settled into the seat across from him and poured him a cup of hot coffee with a smile.
Hayden lifted the cup, inhaled the aroma, but didn't drink. He studied her through the curling steam.
"Ms. Wipere asked me here. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Mireille didn't beat around the bush. She set down her cup, her tone sincere and direct.
"Mr. Smith is a smart man, so I'll cut to it."
"I've been working in the Visconti Group's project team for a while now and have developed some understanding of the company's operations." She paused, her tone taking on a subtle edge. "In my view, there are problems within the current leadership. Certain people's actions are actively harming the company—and its shareholders."
Hayden's eyelid twitched. He opened his eyes fully. "Who exactly are you referring to, Ms. Wipere?"
Mireille didn't answer directly. She took a sip of her coffee, unhurried.
"Mr. Smith, you probably know better than I do that several large fund transfers over the past few years don't quite add up."
Hayden's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
He didn't respond immediately. Several seconds of silence passed before he set down his cup, his gaze sharpening. "What do you want?"
"I just want to help Mr. Smith solve a problem."
Mireille met his eyes, her smile warm and confident. "If you're interested, we can find a time to discuss this properly. I can assure you—I know more than you might think."
Hayden studied her for a long moment. Finally, he gave a slow nod. "Fine."
Mireille smiled, rose, and excused herself.
Stepping out of the coffee shop, she tilted her face toward the overcast sky. A small, triumphant curve settled on her lips.
She was done being Amara's pawn. From now on, she'd be the one moving the pieces.
---
Meanwhile, at the apartment.
Sophie sat at her computer, multiple windows open on the screen.
She sipped coffee that had long gone cold, switching rapidly between tabs, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
The date and location Dahlia had given her had become her sole focus for the past few days.
It took two full days, but she finally found the name buried in an old corporate registration amendment filing.
Terence Brown. Licensed attorney. Specializing in financial crimes and asset restructuring.
Sophie dug deeper into Terence's name and discovered he was linked to multiple shell companies—several of which shared registered addresses with Hawk's offshore entities.
More critically, Terence had handled property transfer paperwork for assets under Hawk's name on multiple occasions, including three properties in the city's prime districts.
Sophie contained her excitement, screenshotting and saving each piece of evidence. Then she picked up her phone and dialed Arabella's number.
"I found something."
The moment the call connected, she got straight to the point, speaking fast.
"I've identified the man. His name is Terence Brown—he's Hawk's domestic legal counsel. He's handled at least three property transfers for Hawk. I'm sending you the details now."
Arabella was quiet for a few seconds on the other end. Then: "Can this Terence be our way in?"
"Absolutely."
Sophie held the phone in one hand while her other hand flew across the mouse, switching between screens.
"The property transfer records he handled can prove Hawk holds real assets domestically. If we can locate a retainer agreement or billing records between him and Hawk, we'll have a complete chain of evidence."
"Keep eyes on Terence. Watch for any new activity."
Finally, things were coming together. A note of urgency crept into Arabella's voice. "And be careful. Don't tip anyone off."
"Relax. I know what I'm doing."
After hanging up, Arabella looked across at Cornelius, about to share Sophie's findings—but stopped when she saw his expression. His face was tense, brow furrowed.
Cornelius sat behind his desk, an audio file playing on his laptop.
He wore headphones, replaying the same recording over and over, his frown deepening with each pass.
It was a phone conversation he'd obtained through overseas channels. The source couldn't be disclosed publicly and held no direct legal weight—but the content itself told a damning story.