Chapter 8 - The Ghost of the Past
By morning, the warm sanctuary of the Vermont estate was interrupted by a single, high-priority digital file arriving on Eloin’s private server.
She sat at the antique writing desk near the window, wrapped in Callahan’s oversized cashmere sweater, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Callahan stood behind her, his hand resting lightly on her chair, his jaw set as he read the decrypted documents scrolling across her screen.
"It wasn't just Jean-Luc Moretti," Eloin said, her voice eerily quiet. She stared at an old police report from twelve years ago—the official file on the hit-and-run that had killed her father, Arthur Harrow.
"Look at the secondary signatory on the police liquidation order," she whispered, pointing her finger at a scanned signature at the bottom of the page.
Callahan leaned down, his eyes narrowing to sharp slits. "Antoine Moretti. Jean-Luc’s father."
"My father wasn't an accountant who made a mistake," Eloin said, her voice dropping into a cold, lethal register that sent a shiver even through Callahan. "He discovered that the Moretti family was using the Connecticut transit routes for human trafficking. He refused to clear the customs manifests. They killed him... and Sterling took me in to hide me."
Callahan’s hand gripped her shoulder, his knuckles turning white. "Sterling knew?"
"Sterling knew," Eloin confirmed, closing her eyes for a brief second. "He knew I was Arthur Harrow’s daughter. He spent ten years teaching me every vulnerability in Moretti’s financial network so that when the time came... I could tear them down."
Callahan leaned over her, his face dark with an ancient, protective rage. "We aren't just tearing down their finances, Eloin."
She looked up at him.
"We are going to wipe the Moretti family off the map," Callahan growled. "Every ship, every warehouse, every soldier. You give me the coordinates, Architect. I’ll provide the fire."
Eloin looked at her husband—the man who had started as a spoiled, arrogant heir and had transformed into an absolute protector, bound to her by blood and devotion.
She turned back to the keyboard, her fingers moving with terrifying speed.
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"Jean-Luc Moretti’s private yacht is anchored off the coast of Rhode Island," she said, her eyes flashing with cold fire. "He believes he’s meeting with Marcus Vance tonight to buy out our remaining port shares. He thinks he has won."
"Send Vance," Callahan said, pulling a dark tactical jacket over his bandaged chest. "Tell him to bring the entire heavy squad. We’re ending this tonight."
