Chapter 3 - I Thought My Mafia Husband Had Only Betrayed Our Marriage—Until I Discovered His Family Was Connected to My Father’s DeathFor seventeen years, I believed my father had died because a drunk driver made a terrible decision on a rainy night.
Now I was sitting in my forty-million-dollar divorce condominium, listening to another Mafia boss tell me that Ethan Blackwood's father might have paid someone to make that accident happen.
I didn't cry.
Not immediately.
I stared at my phone.
Then I asked the only question that mattered.
"Do you have proof?"
Adrian's voice was steady.
"I have a payment record. I don't yet have proof of what the payment purchased."
"How much?"
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
"To whom?"
"A company called Northlake Transportation."
I closed my eyes.
My father had driven a delivery truck for a small printing company.
He wasn't wealthy.
He wasn't powerful.
He wasn't involved in organized crime.
He was a man who brought home cheap flowers for my mother every Friday and told me that kindness was the one thing nobody could take away from us.
And someone might have placed a price on his life.
"Claire?"
I opened my eyes.
"I'm here."
"Don't make assumptions yet."
"You're telling me Richard Blackwood paid a quarter of a million dollars to a transportation company around the time my father died."
"Yes."
"And that same company was dissolved afterward?"
"Within three months."
I stood.
"Where are you?"
"At my office."
"Send me the address."
"Claire—"
"I'm coming."
My mother caught my wrist.
"Sweetheart."
I looked at her.
Her eyes were wet.
"Your father wouldn't want you getting hurt."
For one terrible second, I was fourteen again.
Standing in a hospital hallway.
Watching my mother collapse into a plastic chair while a police officer explained that my father wasn't coming home.
I knelt beside her.
"Mom, I spent seventeen years believing there was nothing we could do."
She touched my cheek.
"And?"
"And now someone is telling me there might be answers."
Her mouth trembled.
"Answers can be dangerous."
"I know."
I kissed her forehead.
"But so is spending the rest of our lives afraid."
I called Rebecca before leaving.
Then I sent copies of every document to a secure legal evidence repository under her supervision.
I wasn't going to march into a criminal investigation with nothing but anger and an expensive handbag.
That would have been foolish.
And whatever Ethan Blackwood believed about me, I had never been foolish.
Adrian's office occupied the top three floors of a building overlooking the Chicago River.
The lobby looked like the headquarters of a respectable investment firm.
Marble floors.
Modern sculptures.
A receptionist who smiled professionally.
Nothing about the place suggested that its owner had once been described by a federal prosecutor as one of the most influential figures in Chicago's organized-crime ecosystem.
Adrian met me outside the elevator.
"You came alone?"
"With licensed security downstairs."
"Good."
"Stop sounding surprised when I make sensible decisions."
His mouth twitched.
"Come in."
His office was enormous.
Glass walls.
Dark wood.
A view of the river.
And, surprisingly, books.
Real books.
Not decorative leather-bound volumes purchased by the foot.
I noticed a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo on a side table.
"Planning revenge?" I asked.
"Trying to understand why people enjoy reading about it."
"Let me know when you finish."
He gestured toward a conference table.
A woman in a navy suit stood beside it.
"Claire, this is Olivia Grant. Former federal financial-crimes investigator. She leads our internal compliance and forensic team."
Olivia shook my hand.
"I wish we were meeting under better circumstances."
"So do I."
She opened a laptop.
"We've been reviewing transactions connected to Victor Salazar and Leonard Voss."
"How long?"
"Eight months."
I looked at Adrian.
"Eight months?"
He nodded.
"Salazar attempted to use one of my investment companies to process fraudulent invoices. We refused the transaction and began investigating."
"Why didn't you report him immediately?"
"We reported suspicious activity through the appropriate channels. But establishing the full network takes time."
Olivia turned the screen toward me.
A chart appeared.
Shell companies.
Bank accounts.
Hospital purchasing contracts.
Shipping companies.
Names I recognized.
Names I didn't.
At the center was Bennett Medical Holdings.
A company that had never belonged to me.
"Your mother's identity was used as a historical authorization source," Olivia explained. "The actual corporate ownership was concealed through several layers."
"Who controlled it?"
"We believe Salazar."
"Believe?"
"We're still establishing beneficial ownership."
I pointed at another company.
"Blackwood Maritime?"
Olivia nodded.
"Several payments passed through a subsidiary."
My stomach tightened.
"Does Ethan know?"
"We can't determine that yet."
I leaned back.
That was the problem with being married to a Mafia boss.
Sometimes you knew exactly what your husband was capable of.
But you never knew which terrible things he had actually done.
Olivia clicked another document.
"This is the payment connected to your father's accident."
A bank transfer.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Authorized by Richard Blackwood's private holding company.
Dated four days before the crash.
I stared at the screen.
My hands went cold.
"Who received it?"
"Northlake Transportation."
"What did they do?"
"We believe they provided vehicles and drivers for private contracts."
"Do you have the driver's name?"
"Not yet."
I looked at Adrian.
"You told me you found a payment."
"Yes."
"You didn't tell me whether it was connected to the accident."
"Because we don't know."
I swallowed my anger.
He was right.
I hated that he was right.
"Then what do we know?"
Olivia opened another file.
"Three weeks before your father's death, your mother filed an internal complaint about missing medical supplies. Leonard Voss was named in the complaint."
"Yes."
"Richard Blackwood was a major investor in the hospital's redevelopment project."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"He held an indirect financial interest through a construction partnership."
The room seemed to tilt.
My father had died seventeen years ago.
Richard Blackwood had been connected to the hospital.
Leonard Voss had been stealing supplies.
And now Voss was involved in a financial operation using my mother's name.
"Why didn't anyone find this before?"
Olivia's expression softened.
"Because nobody was looking at all these records together."
I stood and walked toward the window.
Below us, boats moved along the river.
People crossed bridges.
Cars stopped at traffic lights.
The world continued as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
For years, I had told myself that marrying Ethan was a practical decision.
A way to escape poverty.
A way to give my mother security.
A way to stop being the frightened girl who counted hospital bills.
Now I wondered whether the Blackwood family had been closer to my life than I ever knew.
"Did Ethan know who my father was when we met?" I asked.
Adrian didn't answer immediately.
"I don't know."
"Could our marriage have been arranged?"
"By whom?"
"His father was dead. But someone else could have known."
Adrian came to stand beside me.
"Claire, don't build a theory before we have evidence."
I looked at him.
"You're very calm."
"One of us should be."
I almost smiled.
Then my phone rang.
Ethan.
I stared at the screen.
Adrian noticed.
"Answer if you want."
I accepted the call.
"Claire."
My husband's voice sounded exhausted.
"Are you busy?"
"Extremely."
"I need to see you."
"That's becoming a recurring theme."
"Vanessa admitted she was involved with someone else."
I looked at Adrian.
He watched me without speaking.
"How unfortunate," I said.
"She claims it ended before we reconciled."
"Did you believe her?"
"No."
For the first time in our marriage, Ethan sounded uncertain.
Not angry.
Not commanding.
Just lost.
"I had another consultation," he continued.
"With the specialist?"
"Yes. They're investigating the cause of my infertility."
"That's sensible."
He hesitated.
"Claire, I owe you an apology."
I almost laughed.
An apology.
Three years of marriage.
Forty million dollars.
A pregnant mistress.
And now, finally, an apology.
"For what specifically?" I asked.
Silence.
Then he said, "For blaming you."
That surprised me.
He continued.
"For making you feel defective. For assuming the problem was yours."
I closed my eyes.
Those words would have meant something six months earlier.
They might even have saved our marriage.
Now they felt like flowers delivered after a funeral.
"Thank you," I said.
"Can we talk?"
"Not today."
"Claire—"
"There's something else I need to ask you."
His breathing changed.
"What?"
"Did your father ever mention a man named Leonard Voss?"
Silence.
Long enough to make my pulse quicken.
Then Ethan said, "Where did you hear that name?"
I gripped the phone.
"Answer me."
"Claire, where are you?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
His voice had changed.
The exhausted husband disappeared.
The Mafia boss returned.
"Listen carefully," he said. "If someone has approached you about Voss, you need to tell me immediately."
I looked at Adrian.
"Why?"
"Because Voss is dangerous."
"How dangerous?"
"More dangerous than you understand."
I felt my anger rising.
"Did your father work with him?"
Another silence.
"Ethan."
"Yes."
The word landed like a stone.
"How?"
"I don't know everything."
"Then tell me what you do know."
He exhaled.
"My father invested in a hospital redevelopment project. Voss managed the financial side. Years later, I found irregularities in the records."
"What kind of irregularities?"
"Missing payments. False invoices. Money routed through companies that didn't exist."
My heart pounded.
"What did you do?"
"I confronted my father."
"And?"
"He told me to stay out of it."
"When?"
"Eight years ago."
I stared at the floor.
Eight years ago.
Richard Blackwood had been alive.
Ethan had known about the suspicious financial operation.
And he had done nothing.
"Did you report it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because he was my father."
I laughed bitterly.
"My father died."
Ethan went quiet.
"What?"
"My father died seventeen years ago. And I'm beginning to wonder whether your family had something to do with it."
"Claire."
His voice sharpened.
"What are you talking about?"
I looked at Adrian.
He shook his head slightly.
Not an order.
A warning.
Don't reveal more than necessary.
I swallowed.
"I'll speak to you through my attorney."
I ended the call.
Then I turned toward Adrian.
"He knew about Voss."
"I heard."
"He knew eight years ago."
"Yes."
"And he did nothing."
Adrian's expression was unreadable.
"That doesn't establish involvement in your father's death."
"No."
I looked back at the river.
"But it establishes that he knew something was wrong."
Olivia's phone buzzed.
She read a message.
Her expression changed.
"Adrian."
He turned.
"What?"
"We have a problem."
She placed the phone on the table.
A photograph appeared.
Vanessa Monroe entering a private medical clinic.
Beside her stood Victor Salazar.
The timestamp was from that morning.
"She told Ethan the affair ended," I said.
Olivia nodded.
"Apparently not."
Then she opened a second photograph.
Leonard Voss.
Older now.
Gray hair.
A thin face.
Standing beside Vanessa and Salazar.
I stared at the image.
All three of them.
Together.
"What clinic is that?"
"Westbridge Women's Health."
I frowned.
"Why would Voss be there?"
Olivia hesitated.
"We don't know."
Adrian looked at the photograph.
"Find out who owns the clinic."
Olivia typed quickly.
Then stopped.
Her face changed.
"What?" I demanded.
She turned the laptop.
"Westbridge is owned by a holding company."
"Which one?"
She swallowed.
"Blackwood Medical Investments."
I felt my chest tighten.
Ethan's company.
My husband's money.
His mistress.
Her other lover.
And the man connected to my father's death.
All meeting at a clinic owned by the Blackwood empire.
I looked at Adrian.
"Tell me that's a coincidence."
He didn't.
Instead, he said, "We need to establish what they're doing before anyone confronts them."
I nodded slowly.
Then I made a decision.
"Get me everything you can legally obtain about that clinic."
Olivia looked at Adrian.
He looked at me.
"Claire, this isn't something you can solve by writing a check."
"I know."
"These people have spent years hiding their activities."
"I know."
"They may have committed serious crimes."
I met his eyes.
"Then it's time someone stopped treating them like untouchable royalty."
For the first time, Adrian looked at me with something other than concern.
Respect.
"All right," he said.
Over the next forty-eight hours, my life became a collection of revelations.
Rebecca contacted federal authorities about the forged documents.
Olivia prepared financial evidence.
My mother gave a recorded statement to investigators.
And Adrian stayed close enough to help without pretending that my decisions belonged to him.
That distinction mattered.
Ethan had always called control protection.
Adrian asked permission before offering either.
On Saturday evening, I returned to my condominium and found flowers waiting outside my door.
White roses.
My favorite.
For a moment, I thought Ethan had sent them.
Then I saw the card.
You should have stayed out of this.
No signature.
No explanation.
Just six words.
I called the police.
Then Rebecca.
Then Adrian.
He arrived twenty minutes later.
I handed him the card.
His expression hardened.
"Did you touch anything?"
"Only the envelope."
"Good."
The police photographed the flowers and collected them.
Adrian stood beside the window while an officer took my statement.
When we were finally alone, he turned toward me.
"Claire, I think you should stay somewhere else tonight."
I folded my arms.
"You're not going to tell me to hide?"
"No."
"Good."
"I'm going to tell you that changing locations temporarily is a reasonable security measure."
I considered that.
"Fine."
His eyebrows lifted.
"That was easier than expected."
"Don't get used to it."
He smiled.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
And went completely still.
"What?" I asked.
He ended the call.
"Olivia found something."
"About the clinic?"
"Yes."
"What?"
He looked at me.
"Westbridge has been billing insurers and private donors for fertility treatments that may never have occurred."
I stared.
"Fraud?"
"Potentially extensive fraud."
"And Vanessa?"
"We found payments to her consulting company."
"How much?"
"Almost three million dollars."
My mouth fell open.
Three million.
For what?
Adrian continued.
"There's also evidence that Salazar has been using the pregnancy to influence Ethan's business decisions."
I felt sick.
"How?"
"By persuading him to transfer control of certain medical investments into a trust supposedly benefiting the child."
I stared at him.
Vanessa wasn't simply trying to marry Ethan.
She was trying to obtain access to his assets.
Through a baby whose paternity was in question.
"Does Ethan know?"
"Not yet."
I looked at the flowers.
The warning.
The forged documents.
The photographs.
Then I said, "We need to tell him."
Adrian studied me.
"Are you sure?"
"No."
I picked up my phone.
"But if Vanessa is using a child to steal from him, he deserves to know."
"Even after what he did to you?"
I looked at Adrian.
"Ethan betrayed me. That doesn't mean I want him destroyed by people who may have helped destroy my family."
For a moment, Adrian said nothing.
Then he nodded.
"I'll arrange a meeting."
I thought that was the worst revelation of the night.
I was wrong.
Because ten minutes later, my mother called.
She sounded breathless.
"Claire."
"Mom?"
"I found something."
"What?"
"Your father's old briefcase."
My heart stopped.
"What about it?"
"I never threw it away. It was in the attic."
"Mom, don't touch anything else. I'll come get it."
She ignored me.
"There was a letter inside."
I closed my eyes.
"From Dad?"
"No."
"Then who?"
Her voice broke.
"Richard Blackwood."
The room seemed to disappear.
My mother began to cry.
"Claire, the letter says your father was supposed to meet him the night he died."
I couldn't breathe.
"And there's something written at the bottom."
"What?"
She hesitated.
Then whispered, "If anything happens to me, the truth is in the blue ledger."
I stared at Adrian.
"The blue ledger?"
He went pale.
For the first time since meeting him, Adrian Moretti looked genuinely shocked.
"Claire," he said quietly, "where did your mother hear those words?"
I lowered the phone.
"Why?"
Adrian swallowed.
"Because my father spent the last ten years of his life looking for that ledger."
And suddenly I realized that the secret behind my father's death was bigger than Ethan Blackwood.
Bigger than Vanessa Monroe.
Bigger than forty-six million dollars.
May you like
It was a secret powerful enough to connect two rival Mafia families.
And someone had been willing to kill to keep it buried.
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