Chapter 8 - The Ghost From Boston
Victor’s hand hovered over the manila folder for a fraction of a second before he pulled it toward himself and opened the brass clasp.
Inside lay a single black-and-white photograph taken twelve years ago outside a federal courthouse in downtown Boston.
The photograph showed Victor standing beside a woman with blonde hair and hazel eyes—a woman the media reported dead in a fire.
“Where did you get this, Jonathan?” Victor’s voice dropped into a dangerous, razor-sharp whisper that made the room’s temperature plummet.
“From a man who calls himself Lord Sterling—an investor who claims he funded your corporate rise using stolen syndicate capital,” my father answered calmly.
“He says if you don't hand over sixty percent of the Connecticut estate by next Monday, he will expose your true identity.”
Victor stared at the photograph, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the mahogany desk with intense fury.
“Sterling is dead. I buried his empire years ago,” Victor growled, his eyes flashing with a dark, unyielding menace.
May you like
“Men like that never truly die, Victor,” my father warned, standing up and buttoning his dark suit jacket.
“They just wait until you think you’ve won, and then they strike from the shadows.”
