Chapter 10 - The Weight of Evidence
The amber light of dawn bled through the slatted blinds of the brownstone study, casting sharp, dusty lines across the mahogany desk. I sat in the high-backed leather chair, the heavy stack of documents retrieved from Arthur Sterling’s office spread out before me like a crime scene map. Every page was a testament to cold, calculated corporate greed—bank transfers, notarized proxy votes, and forged death certificates designed to wipe Liliana from the registry of the living. My jaw tightened as my thumb traced a signature belonging to a man who had once shared drinks at my table, a man who had decided that a six-year-old orphan was a loose end that needed tying up.
Viktor stood silently by the window, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the gray morning sky. He was holding a porcelain coffee mug, though he hadn't touched it in an hour. "The federal prosecutor in the downtown district has jurisdiction over interstate corporate fraud and falsification of vital records," Viktor said, his voice low and steady. "If we walk through those courthouse doors with this paper trail, they can't bury it. It becomes public record. But once you pull that trigger, there’s no turning back. Every shell company we own will be scrutinized."
I looked down at the silver locket resting beside the papers—the small metal heart that Liliana had refused to let go of even while sleeping. "We aren't turning back," I said, my voice flat, devoid of hesitation. "Get the car ready. And make sure Viktor Jr. has a team stationed outside the guest bedroom. Nobody touches her while we're gone."
We drove through the awakening city streets as commuter traffic began to clog the avenues. The sky remained a heavy, bruised gray, threatening rain. Inside the federal building, the marble floors echoed with the sharp click of leather shoes and the murmurs of lawyers carrying briefcases. We bypassed the public lines, heading straight for the secure intake offices on the fourth floor where Senior Prosecutor Helen Vance handled white-collar corruption cases. She looked up from her desk as I dropped the thick manila folder onto her blotter, the sound sharp and definitive.
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"Mr. Vance," she said, her eyes narrowing as she recognized my face and the tattoos framing my collar. "You're walking into a federal building with documents that half the city's boardrooms would kill to keep hidden. What is this?"
"Insurance," I replied, leaning forward against her desk. "And proof of a conspiracy to murder an innocent child and steal an estate. Read page four, Helen. It has your old friend Arthur Sterling’s signature right next to the bank routing numbers."
