Chapter 5: The Plan

Portia’s POV

I barely slept a wink. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could feel was the weight of Dante’s hand heavy against my collarbone, the gravelly vibration of his voice in my ear, and the thrill of the stolen black keycard tucked safely beneath my mattress.

By morning, harsh sunlight flooded my bedroom, My heart was thumping a frantic rhythm, my palms slick with sweat. “I have the key. I just need the window.” I thought to myself.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Grace stepped inside carrying my morning breakfast tray.

"Good morning, Portia," Grace said warmly, setting the tray down.

"Good morning, Grace," I replied, forcing my vocal cords to produce a completely steady tone. I took a deliberate sip of water to clear the tightness in my throat before asking casually, "Is Dante... around today?"

Grace gave a small shake of her head. "No, Portia. Master Dante left for Manhattan before seven for an urgent meeting with Frank. He won't be back until late afternoon at the earliest."

My pulse spiked instantly. He’s gone.

But outside my door stood Marco, an  immovable, six-foot-three wall of muscle watching my every move.

I looked at Grace, my chest aching with a wave of desperate emotion. I couldn't pull this off alone. I needed her.

"Grace," I whispered, stepping closer to her and reaching out to take her hands softly. Her skin was warm, her eyes widening in immediate surprise. "I need to ask you for something. Something dangerous."

Grace stared at me, her eyes widening in immediate surprise. "Portia, what are you talking about?" her voice dropped to a cautious whisper.

"I need to get into the West Wing," I said urgently, locking my gaze dead onto hers. "My brothers sold me to Dante based on a debt they claim my father owed. But my father was an honest man, Grace. He prided himself on absolute integrity. They are dragging my dead parents' names through the mud, calling my father a reckless thief, and I know it’s a lie. Please. I need to clear my parents' memory. I can't rest until I see the truth with my own eyes."

Grace pulled her hands back instantly, taking a step away as if my words had burned her. "Have you lost your mind?" she hissed, her voice trembling with genuine alarm. "The West Wing is off-limits to everyone, If you are caught in there, not even God himself could save you from his wrath."

"I have to take that risk," I pleaded, stepping toward her again. "I can't live in this house as a piece of collateral for a crime my family didn't commit."

"And what happens when you get caught?" Grace shot back,fear instantly stripping away her maternal warmth "You think Dante will just give you a stern reprimand? I’ve watched men disappear from this estate for far less than trespassing in his personal quarters, Portia. And what about me? What about the staff? Do you have any idea what he would do to anyone who helped you?"

"I won't let him blame you."

Silence hung heavy in the room for several agonizing seconds.

Finally, Grace let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her choice. "You are playing with fire, child. Real fire."

"Please, Grace. Just give me a window. A few minutes is all I need."

Grace looked toward the closed door where Marco stood outside, then turned back to me, her expression hardening with quiet, resolute determination.

"There is a high-security delivery scheduled at the service gate in twenty minutes," she whispered, stepping close enough that I could feel the tension radiating off her. "Protocol requires the head guard on duty to personally clear the delivery van and inspect it."

She reached out and took my hands again, her fingers rigid. "I will tell Marco he is needed at the service gate immediately. That will give you fifteen minutes—no more. If you aren't back in this room when that timer runs out, or if you get caught... I had no part in this. Do you understand me? I will deny everything."

"Fifteen minutes is all I need. Thank you, Grace," I breathed, squeezing her hands back tight.

************

Twenty minutes later, I stood pressed against the door, listening with every nerve ending in my body.

I heard Grace's calm, authoritative voice echoing down the hallway, calling out to Marco and informing him of the delivery arrival at the gate. Marco grunted a terse reply, his heavy boot-steps retreating down the corridor toward the service entrance.

The exact second the hallway went completely, dead silent, I moved.

I pulled out the black master keycard from my pocket and slipped out of my room. I moved swiftly down the East Wing corridor, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs as I reached the heavy biometric door of the West wing.

My hands trembled violently as I swiped the black card across the scanner.

Beep.

A soft green light flashed, and the electronic locks disengaged with a smooth, heavy click.

It worked.

I pushed through the gap and slipped into the shadows of the West Wing, making a direct line for Dante’s massive, dark command center. The grand office was silent, bathed in the dim afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass.

I didn't waste a single second. I ran behind the massive desk, booted up his primary encrypted terminal, and tapped the master keycard against the reader built into the desk surface.

The screen instantly flickered to life, bypassing the password prompts and opening the Salvatore Central Ledger.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in my family's name, VANCE ESTATE.

Files instantly expanded across the display. My forensic accounting training kicked in automatically, my eyes scanning the wire transfers, account numbers, and transaction dates with hyper-focused, mathematical speed.

As the ledger entries unspooled, a cold, sickening realization washed over me, making my blood freeze in my veins.

The debt didn't belong to my father. Not a single cent of this money had ever touched his personal accounts or his legitimate business holdings.

Instead, the records revealed a chaotic web of high-interest private loans, unauthorized lines of credit, and shady corporate markers. Huge, dizzying sums, hundreds of thousands, then millions were bleeding out in constant, frantic installments, all charged directly against our estate.

And at the bottom of every authorization, every wire request, and every binding signature were two names: Dominic Vance and Julian Vance.

It was all right here in black and white. My brothers had been quietly taking out massive, predatory loans and running up massive business debts, strategically binding every single cent to the Vance Family Estate name to keep their own hands clean.

"You bastards," I whispered, tears of pure rage stinging my eyes as my gut instinct was officially, undeniably validated. My father was innocent.

I quickly pulled out my phone, aiming the camera at the bright screen to snap photos of the bank accounts and wire logs.

Click. Click.

Suddenly, the heavy metallic handle of the office door turned.

A loud, sharp electronic clunk shattered the stillness of the room.

My heart instantly stopped beating. I froze, my phone still pointed at the glowing screen, as the massive door swung wide open, and the sickening reality hit me that I had just been caught dead in the act.