Shadows in the Numbers

The day at the Vallardi mansion passed in a blur, each hour a reminder of how far I was from my normal life. The server room had become my temporary prison—a maze of screens and numbers staring at me with the same intensity as the armed men in the hallways. Carla was my only company, occasionally showing up with coffee and sarcastic remarks that slightly eased the tension. But not even her humor could lift the weight I felt as I flipped through my father’s books—each page an echo of his voice, his lessons, and the secrets he never shared.

My eyes ached from staring at figures for so long. These ledgers were a puzzle—but not the clean kind I used to solve with Dad at our kitchen table. These were full of cryptic notes, dates that didn’t line up, names of companies that sounded more like fronts than actual businesses. I had spent hours tracing a trail of transfers, clicking between spreadsheets and scanned documents, searching for anything that might explain why my father had gotten tangled up with the Vallardis. Every number felt like a betrayal—a sign that the man I admired had a side I never knew.

Carla walked into the room, a bottle of water in her hand.

“You still alive, accountant?” she asked, leaning against a table full of monitors. Her leather jacket creaked, and the red of her hair gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Barely,” I muttered, not taking my eyes off the screen. “This is a mess. Whoever kept these books didn’t want anyone to understand a damn thing.”

She let out a dry laugh.

“That sounds like the Vallardis. Chaos is their trademark.” She stepped closer, glancing over my shoulder. “So, did you find anything useful, or are you just torturing yourself?”

I didn’t answer right away. My finger hovered over a line in a spreadsheet—a $250,000 transfer to an account in the Cayman Islands. The date was just over a year ago, right before my dad died. But what made me frown was the associated name: Aurora Holdings. I had seen that name before, scribbled in one of the ledgers beside a single initial: E. It didn’t fit. Most of the transfers were linked to companies I could trace back to the Vallardis, but this one… this one was different. It was like someone had tried to hide it—but not well enough.

“I think I found something,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended. My heart was racing—not just because of the lead, but because of what it meant. If this was proof of what Marco was looking for, it could also be proof of my father’s betrayal. Or someone else’s.

Carla raised an eyebrow.

“Something big? ’Cause if it is, you better talk to the boss before he heads out.”

“Heads out?” I frowned, turning to her. “Where’s he going?”

She shrugged, that half-smile of hers never quite revealing everything.

“Business. Always business. Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

I followed her through the mansion’s hallways, my heels clicking against the marble floor. Every step reminded me of how out of place I was—like a puzzle piece shoved into the wrong board. We reached a door that led to an underground garage, a space filled with cars that looked more like works of art than vehicles. Marco was there, bent over a red sports car so polished it reflected the overhead lights like a mirror. He wore a leather jacket over a white shirt, and for a moment, he looked less like a mafia boss and more… human. Until he looked up—and those gray eyes locked onto mine, disarming me with a single glance.

“Miss Russo,” he said, straightening. His voice was soft, but had that edge that put my nerves on high alert. “I hope you’re bringing good news.”

I swallowed, clutching my bag like a life raft.

“I found something in the accounts. A transfer that doesn’t add up. I’d like to discuss it with you.”

He raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, his phone vibrated. He checked it with a swift gesture, and his expression hardened.

“We’ll talk on the way. Come.” Without waiting for an answer, he opened the passenger door of the sports car and motioned for me to get in.

“What? Now?” I stammered, caught off guard. This wasn’t what I expected. I thought we’d talk in his office, not—whatever this was. But the way he looked at me—with that mix of impatience and command—made it clear there was no room for negotiation.

“Get in,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. I hesitated for a second, heart racing, but I had no choice. I slid into the leather seat, the scent of new car and him filling the space. The engine roared to life, and the car shot out of the garage, pinning me to the backrest. The city lights blurred outside, a swirl of neon and rain.

“Start talking,” he ordered, eyes fixed on the road. His hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white—and I realized something was making him tenser than usual.

I took a deep breath, trying to ignore how close he was, how much heat he radiated.

“I found a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar transfer to an account in the Cayman Islands. It was just over a year ago, right before my father died. It’s linked to something called Aurora Holdings. It’s not in the main Vallardi records, and there was a note beside it with an initial—E. I don’t know who that is, but it looks like someone tried to hide that money.”

Marco didn’t reply right away. His jaw clenched, and the car sped up slightly, the engine’s growl filling the silence.

“Huh?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “Are you sure?”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see me in the dark.

“I saw it in one of my father’s books. I don’t know what it means, but it’s no mistake. Someone did it on purpose.”

He turned the wheel sharply, taking a corner that made me grip the seat.

“If it’s what I think it is, this is bigger than you imagined,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. Then he glanced at me—just for a second—but it was enough to send my pulse skyrocketing. “Good work, Sofia. But keep this between us. Understood?”

“Why?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “If it’s a lead, shouldn’t you share it with your people?”

His laugh was short, bitter.

“My people aren’t always trustworthy. But I figured you, of all people, would understand that.”

His words hit me like a punch. I wanted to snap back, but the car rolled to a stop in front of a warehouse in an industrial district—dark and deserted. My stomach tightened.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, my voice trembling despite myself.

Marco turned off the engine and faced me, his face just inches from mine.

“Business, baby,” he said, his voice a murmur that sent a chill down my spine. “Stay close, Sofia. This isn’t a game.”

He stepped out, leaving me with my heart in my throat—and the growing certainty that with every step, I was sinking deeper into his world.