Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Knew the Original Language
Hamburg was colder than I expected.
The wind cut through my coat as Dominic's black SUV moved along the river.
I sat beside him.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Finally, he asked, “Are you nervous?”
“No.”
“You're lying.”
I smiled.
“I'm cold.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
I looked at him.
“Fine. I'm nervous.”
“About the work?”
“No.”
He turned his head.
“Then what?”
“About being surrounded by people who can make me disappear.”
He didn't smile.
“No one touches you.”
“You can't guarantee that.”
“I can.”
His answer was immediate.
I studied him.
He wasn't boasting.
He believed it.
We arrived at a private warehouse near the docks.
Two men met us.
One spoke Italian.
The other German.
The Italian man introduced himself as Marco.
The German was Dr. Elena Weiss.
Professor of European commercial law.
And the woman who had translated the original treaty.
I stared at her.
“You translated this?”
She nodded.
“Years ago.”
“And you used the phrase Begünstigter?”
“Yes.”
“But that isn't what the original says.”
Her expression changed.
“I know.”
The room went silent.
Dominic stepped forward.
“You told me the translation was accurate.”
“I told you what I was instructed to tell you.”
My heart started pounding.
“By whom?”
She looked at Dominic.
Then at me.
Finally she whispered.
“Your uncle.”
Dominic's face hardened.
“My uncle died.”
Elena shook her head.
“No.”
She reached into her bag.
“He didn't.”
She handed him a photograph.
A man walking through an airport.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakably Adrian Vale.
Dominic stared.
“Where was this taken?”
“Zurich.”
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
Dominic looked at me.
I had never seen him look so angry.
But beneath the anger was something else.
Pain.
The kind people hide when they don't want anyone to know they still care.
Elena continued.
“Your uncle contacted me eleven years ago.”
“Why?”
“He wanted me to alter several historical translations.”
“For what purpose?”
“To create the appearance that your father's shipping properties had transferred to a new holding company.”
I looked at the documents.
“But they didn't?”
“No.”
“Who owns them?”
Elena hesitated.
“The Russo family does not.”
Dominic's expression became terrifyingly calm.
“Who does?”
She looked at me.
“Your father created a protective trust.”
I froze.
“A trust?”
“Yes.”
“For the heirs.”
“Then why aren't they on the paperwork?”
“Because the original beneficiary wasn't a person.”
I leaned forward.
“What was it?”
Elena whispered a name.
“Children.”
Dominic's face changed.
“What?”
“Your father's final arrangement protected minors affected by the criminal network.”
I felt a chill.
“Why?”
“Because he intended to dismantle the organization.”
Dominic looked away.
His father hadn't been building a criminal empire.
He had been trying to escape one.
The documents had been altered afterward.
His uncle hadn't protected the empire.
He had stolen it.
And Dominic had spent twenty years believing he was carrying on his father's legacy.
He wasn't.
He was carrying the consequences of a betrayal.
Elena opened another folder.
“There's more.”
Inside was a list of names.
Dozens.
Children of murdered witnesses.
Children of employees who had disappeared.
Children whose parents had been involved in organized crime.
Their identities had been placed inside the trust.
Their futures protected.
Money allocated.
Properties reserved.
But then every record had been redirected.
Someone had drained the trust.
Dominic stared.
“How much?”
“Current value?”
“Yes.”
“Approximately eight hundred million dollars.”
Silence.
I exhaled slowly.
Eight hundred million.
Stolen through translation.
Not bullets.
Not kidnappings.
Not threats.
Words.
A single altered legal concept.
Dominic looked at me.
“You understand this better than anyone.”
I shook my head.
“I understand the language.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I understand enough to know this isn't just theft.”
“What is it?”
“Forgery on a historic scale.”
Elena nodded.
“There is a problem.”
“What?”
“The original register is missing.”
Dominic's expression darkened.
“Where was it kept?”
“New York.”
“Where?”
She gave him an address.
My blood ran cold.
I knew that address.
It was connected to Maison Étoile.
Dominic saw my expression.
“You recognize it.”
“That restaurant was built over an old archive building.”
“And?”
I looked at the papers.
“If the original register survived, it may still be under the restaurant.”
The three of us stared at one another.
May you like
Dominic stood.
“Then we're going back to New York.”
