Chapter 8 - A Deal with the Titan
Two hours later, I sat across from Ethan Cole at an upscale, discreet café on the outskirts of the financial district.
Despite having spent the night in an interrogation room providing statements, Ethan looked immaculate. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that hid the bulk of his broad shoulders, though a bandage was neatly wrapped around his right knuckles. A double espresso sat untouched before him.
"You look surprisingly rested, Mrs. Vance," Ethan said, his voice deep and measured.
"Call me Nora," I replied. "And I haven't slept in three days. Adrenaline is doing the heavy lifting."
I slid the leather-bound journal across the marble table toward him.
Ethan raised an eyebrow. He picked it up with his uninjured hand, opened the cover, and began to read. As his eyes scanned the columns of numbers and foreign entity names, his expression darkened into something lethal.
"Where did you find this?" he asked.
"His private floor safe. Grant kept meticulous records of his thievery. Narcissists always do—they can't bear the thought of someone else taking credit for their genius." I leaned forward. "Look at page four."
Ethan flipped the page. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched beneath his beard. "Elena Sterling. The shipping heiress."
"She was twenty-eight when she drowned off the coast of Key West four years ago," I said. "The police ruled it an accidental drowning. Grant and Dylan were on her yacht that weekend. Two weeks later, Dylan bought his first commercial warehouse, and Grant bought his partnership stake at his firm."
Ethan looked up, his gaze piercing. "Vanessa was just the next mark."
"Exactly," I said. "Grant didn't love Vanessa. He didn't love me. He and Dylan are corporate predators who target women with access to vast pools of untraceable liquidity. Vanessa was supposed to take the blame when your trust disappeared. Grant was planning to liquidate everything into the Cayman accounts listed on page twelve and disappear by the end of this month."
Ethan closed the book with a heavy thud. He looked at me with genuine respect.
"You didn't just save your father's house, Nora. You handed me the noose to hang them both for federal racketeering—and potentially capital murder."
"I don't just want them in prison, Ethan," I said, my voice steady, ice running through my veins. "I want them stripped of every dime, every suit, every illusion of power they ever possessed. I want Patricia to watch her sons rot in a federal penitentiary."
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Ethan reached into his breast pocket and produced a sleek black business card. "My family controls Cole Maritime Holdings. We have the top forensic investigators in the hemisphere on retainer. Work with me. Let my legal team coordinate with your divorce lawyer. I will ensure Grant Vance never sees the outside of a concrete cell for the rest of his natural life."
I took the card. "We have a deal, Mr. Cole."
