Chapter Two: The Journal

Gabrielle hadn’t cried when she buried her father. Not when the preacher said his name like it was just another name. Not when the wind kicked dust over the grave like the earth itself was trying to forget him.

But now, sitting cross-legged on the polished floor of her aunt’s townhouse, surrounded by the contents of his trunk, she felt something clawing at her throat. Not tears. Not grief. Something sharper.

She hadn’t opened the journal until now. Not on the train. Not in the barn. Not even when the silence of the city pressed against her like a weight. But something about last night—about Dante Virelli stepping from the shadows like a ghost conjured by grief—had shifted something inside her.

The name had echoed in her bones.

Virelli.

She’d heard it before. Whispers. Warnings. Her father’s voice, low and guarded, saying “Some names are doors you don’t open.”

She opened the journal.

The leather was cracked, the pages yellowed. Her father’s handwriting was neat, deliberate. She flipped past entries about cattle births and weather patterns, past sketches of saddle designs and supply lists. Then, tucked between two pages, she found it.

A note. Folded once. Slipped between lines like a secret.

Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.

If anything happens to me, look for the Virellis. Julian Virelli.

Gabrielle stared at the words. Her breath caught. Her pulse roared in her ears.

Julian Virelli.

She read it again. And again. The ink was faded, but the message was clear. Her father had written it. Had signed it. Had hidden it.

She felt the floor shift beneath her.

Her father had known the Virellis. Not just known them—trusted them. Or feared them. Or both.

Gabrielle stood abruptly, the journal falling to the floor. She paced the room, fists clenched. Her father had never spoken of Julian Virelli. Never mentioned the syndicate. Never explained why he kept a loaded rifle beneath the floorboards or why he flinched at the sound of train whistles.

And now Dante Virelli—Julian’s son, heir to the empire—had appeared in her life like a storm cloud.

She felt sick.

What had her father done? What had he been part of? And why had he kept it from her?

She returned to the trunk, digging through the rest of the contents. A few letters. A map of Wren Hollow. A receipt from a bank she didn’t recognize. Nothing else.

No answers.

Just a name.

She folded the note and tucked it into her boot.

 

That evening, Gabrielle stood in the library, staring at the rows of books she didn’t recognize. Eugenia had gone out for the night, leaving the house quiet but not peaceful. Gabrielle pulled a volume from the shelf—The History of Western Trade Syndicates—and flipped through it. The Virelli name appeared twice. Once in a footnote. Once in a chapter about “unregulated influence.”

She slammed the book shut.

Clara entered quietly. “Miss?”

Gabrielle turned. “Do you know anything about the Virellis?”

Clara hesitated. “Only what people whisper. They own half the city. The other half owes them.”

Gabrielle’s voice was tight. “Do they kill people?”

Clara paled. “I wouldn’t ask that out loud.”

Gabrielle nodded slowly. “Then I’ll ask it in silence.”

 

That night, she sat by the window again, the city lights flickering like warning signals. She held the note in one hand, her father’s pocket watch in the other.

Julian Virelli.

If anything happens to me...

She didn’t know what Dante wanted. She didn’t know what her father had done. But she knew this:

She would find out.

Even if it meant opening every door her father had warned her to leave shut.

 

The next morning, Gabrielle dressed in her riding boots and a dark coat, her hair braided tight against her scalp. She looked older than seventeen in the mirror. Harder. She tucked the note into her pocket and headed out before Eugenia could ask questions.

The city was already awake. Carriages rattled over cobblestones, vendors shouted over each other, and the air smelled like coal and ambition.

She walked with purpose, ignoring the stares. She didn’t look like she belonged here, and she didn’t care.

She found the bank from the receipt. It was tucked between a tailor’s shop and a café, its windows dark and its sign faded. Inside, the clerk looked up with a practiced smile.

“I’m looking for information on an account,” Gabrielle said, placing the receipt on the counter.

The clerk squinted. “This is from a private vault. We don’t disclose details without authorization.”

Gabrielle leaned in. “The man who opened it is dead. I’m his daughter.”

The clerk hesitated. “I’ll need to speak with the manager.”

She waited, heart pounding, fingers twitching. When the manager arrived, he was tall and thin, with a mustache that looked like it had been drawn on.

“Miss Gabrielle,” he said, glancing at the receipt. “Your father left instructions. If anyone came asking, they were to be given this.”

He handed her a small envelope.

She opened it slowly. Inside was a key. Brass. Heavy.

And a note.

Vault 7. Ask for Julian.

Her breath caught.

Julian again.

She turned to the manager. “Who is Julian?”

The man’s expression didn’t change. “He hasn’t been seen in years. But if you’re looking for Vault 7, you’ll need to go to the old district.”

Gabrielle nodded, pocketed the key, and left.

 

The old district was quieter. Narrower streets. Fewer eyes. She found the building easily—it looked abandoned, but the lock on the door was new.

She used the key.

Inside, the air was cold and smelled of dust and metal. A single lantern flickered in the corner. Vaults lined the walls, numbered in faded paint.

She found Vault 7.

The key fit.

Inside was a box. Wooden. Locked with a second key already in place.

She opened it.

Inside were letters. Dozens. All addressed to Julian Virelli. Some were signed by her father. Others by names she didn’t recognize.

And beneath them, a photograph.

Her father. Younger. Standing beside a man with sharp eyes and a crooked smile.

Julian Virelli.

They looked like partners.

Or something worse.

Gabrielle’s hands shook as she lifted the photo. On the back, in her father’s handwriting:

He saved my life. Then he ruined it.

She stared at the words.

Then something creaked behind her.

She turned sharply.

A shadow moved in the hallway.

Gabrielle stepped back, heart racing. “Who’s there?”

No answer.

She reached for the lantern, holding it high.

Another creak.

She wasn’t alone.

She backed toward the door, clutching the photo and the letters.

Then a voice, low and unfamiliar, echoed from the dark.

“You shouldn’t be here, Gabrielle.”

She froze.

The lantern flickered.

And then nothing. Just like that, it seemed like the shadow was only in her imagination.