If you come near these children again, I will call the police, Adrian, Maya whispered, her hands trembling as she pulled the double stroller back.
The numbers in Concetta’s journal entries blurred, then solidified. A series of payments, disguised under vague headings like “property management” and “secure housing,” all originating from an account I recognized: Apex Mutual Escrow. My grandfather’s syndicate had used them for years for legitimate-looking transactions.
A name jumped out: Marcus Brody. Senior Risk Adjuster.
I drove downtown, the journal clutched tight in my hand, the rage a cold, hard knot in my gut. Brody’s office was on the 32nd floor of a gleaming glass tower, far removed from the grimy reality of the syndicate’s operations. His receptionist, a young woman with a meticulously neat bun, looked up, startled, as I walked past her desk without an appointment.
Brody, a portly man with thinning grey hair and an anxious flicker in his eyes, sat behind a mahogany desk, sorting through what looked like stacks of insurance claims. He visibly stiffened when he saw me.
“Mr. Moretti,” he stammered, his face paling. “This is… an unexpected visit.”
I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I need to see the logs for account 47-B, under ‘estate maintenance.’ All of them, for the past four years.”
His eyes darted nervously to the door, then back to me. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, sir. All records are confidential.”
I slammed Concetta’s journal onto his desk. The impact made a few pens rattle.
“Concetta Moretti doesn’t write fiction, Brody. These are specific dates, specific payment amounts. All funneled through Apex. Now, you can open those files for me, or I can have Agent Cruz open them for you. And trust me, you don’t want the feds sifting through your ‘confidential’ records.”
Brody swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He knew exactly what I was talking about. His mercenary fear was almost palpable.
“This is… highly irregular,” he mumbled, his fingers trembling as he typed furiously on his keyboard. A few clicks, and a digital ledger flashed onto his screen.
My eyes scrolled down the list of transactions. Thousands upon thousands of dollars. Not for my estate, not for any property I owned.
“Eighteen thousand dollars a month,” I said, my voice flat, pointing to a recurring charge. “For ‘secure residential services.’ Whose residential services, Brody?”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “It was… part of a directive. From Mr. Castaglione.”
Julian again. Of course.
“To maintain a network of safehouses,” Brody confessed, his voice barely a whisper, “for Maya Brooks. So she could remain… isolated. Unreachable.”
The realization hit me like a physical blow. Eighteen thousand dollars. Every single month, for four years. My own money. My trust fund, set up by my grandfather for my future. It had been systematically siphoned off, not to enrich Julian, but to imprison Maya. To pay off landlords and caretakers in impoverished Chicago neighborhoods, keeping her under constant, suffocating surveillance.
And all under the guise of “estate maintenance,” right under my nose. I had been funding my own children’s forced isolation. The bitter irony twisted in my gut.
“Where is she, Brody?” I demanded, my voice raw. “Where are these safehouses?”
Brody shook his head frantically. “I don’t know the specific addresses anymore. The last one was… two weeks ago. The instructions changed frequently. Julian handled the coordinates personally.”
He pulled up a final entry: a payment for a Pilsen apartment, just two weeks prior. The trail was fresh. I had to move, and quickly.
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