She Pulled a Billionaire’s Grandmother From a Freezing Canal

The sun didn't rise over Chicago that morning; the gray smear of dawn simply bled through the heavy rain clouds like dirty dishwater.

In the East Wing library of the Moretti estate, three computer monitors cast a cold, blue glow across rows of leather-bound law books and mahogany bookshelves.

Leah sat at the heavy oak desk, her fingers flying across a secure terminal Gabriel had had installed two hours earlier. Beside her, a high-resolution scanner hummed rhythmically as it digitized every water-damaged page of Arthur Moretti’s 1981 ledger.

“The math doesn't lie,” Leah said, pointing to a column of figures glowing on the central screen. “If Victor Sayegh was diverting thirty crates of copper a week back in eighty-one, compounded over forty years with interest and asset appreciation through shell corporations in the Caymans... he didn't just skim from your grandfather, Mr. Moretti. He bought out half your shipping terminals using your own capital.”

Gabriel stood by the high windows, staring out at the gray lawn where two armed guards patrolled the perimeter with Belgian Malinois on heavy leather leashes. He hadn't slept. He had consumed three cups of black coffee and spent twenty minutes on a secure satellite phone with federal prosecutors in Washington who owed his family favors that were coming due.

“Victor retired to a villa in Tuscany three years ago,” Gabriel said quietly, his back to the room. “He sends me a basket of lemons every Christmas.”

“People in Tuscany use wire transfers just like everyone else,” Leah replied, hitting a keystroke that saved the composite financial model into an encrypted flash drive. She slipped the drive out of the slot and held it between her fingers. “Where is the key she was wearing around her neck? The brass one with the numbers?”

Gabriel turned around. He walked over to the desk, opened a velvet-lined silver box, and pulled out the heavy brass key stamped with the digits 4-0-9.

“Safe deposit box at the First National Mercantile downtown,” Gabriel said. “A vault my grandfather leased under a dummy corporation that was dissolved the week he died.”

“Then we have until noon before Victor’s people realize the ledger isn't in the trunk anymore,” Leah said, standing up and sliding the flash drive into the inner pocket of her windbreaker. “Because once they check that trunk and find it empty, they’re going to figure out Cecilia gave it to whoever pulled her out of the canal.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’re coming with me?”

“I’m the only one who can read your grandfather’s handwriting without guessing the numbers,” Leah retorted, her chin lifting with a sudden, fierce defiance that made Sal—standing near the door—let out a low whistle of amusement. “Besides, Mr. Moretti, you owe me a dry pair of shoes and a ride back to my apartment. My shift at Mercy started two hours ago, and my supervisor thinks I’m dead in a ditch.”

Gabriel stared at her for three long seconds. Then a faint, grim smile touched the corners of his mouth.