Chapter 6 - The Shadows of Lake George
The ride north through the Hudson Valley was a blur of flashing red taillights and roaring engines. Three black SUVs tore through the freezing night, cutting through the snow-dusted pine forests surrounding Lake George with military precision.
In the lead vehicle, Vincent Moretti sat in absolute silence, staring down at the cracked blue phone resting in his palm. The screen was black, dead, but he clutched it as if it were a lifeline connecting him to three lost years of his life.
“We’re two miles out from the old forestry outpost,” Dominic announced from the passenger seat, loading the magazine of a heavy Sig Sauer pistol with practiced calm. “Property is registered under a shell company linked to Bellamy’s law firm. High fences, motion sensors, private access road.”
“Tear the gates down,” Vincent said.
A minute later, the lead SUV’s reinforced steel bumper slammed through a set of padlocked iron security gates, sending sparks flying into the snow. The vehicles fanned out around a dilapidated, two-story timber cabin nestled deep among the hemlock trees. A single amber light burned in the second-floor window.
Before the guards inside could reach the doors, Dominic’s men had breached the perimeter, shattering the front lock with a disciplined kick.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Dominic stepped into the hallway, motioning for Vincent to follow.
They rushed up the narrow wooden stairs. At the end of the hall, a heavy oak door was secured with a digital keypad lock. Dominic raised the butt of his pistol and smashed the electronic housing with three swift strikes. The door swung open.
The room was small, heated by a crackling cast-iron woodstove. A simple cot sat against the far wall, piled with heavy woolen blankets. A small writing desk sat beneath a barred window overlooking the dark lake.
Sitting at the desk, wrapped in a gray shawl, was a woman.
She turned slowly as the door crashed open. Her hair was longer than it had been three years ago, streaked with silver at the temples, and her face was thinner, carved with the severe lines of long isolation. But her amber eyes—fierce, intelligent, and unyielding—had not changed at all.
Sofia Moretti looked at the armed men filling her room, then past them, her gaze locking onto the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing in the doorway.
For three seconds, neither of them breathed.
Vincent dropped his pistol. It hit the wooden floorboards with a dull thud.
He crossed the small room in two massive strides, dropping to his knees before her chair, his large, calloused hands coming up to cup her face as if testing whether she was made of flesh and bone or merely smoke and memory.
“Sofia,” he choked out, his voice breaking entirely.
A single tear slipped down Sofia’s cheek, catching the amber light of the woodstove. She reached up, her fingers tracing the rough stubble along his jawline.
“You took your time, Vince,” she whispered, her voice raspy from years of disuse, carrying the exact cadence Emily had heard on the recording. “I left that phone in the pump station hoping the spring melt would wash it down to the estate docks. It took you long enough to find it.”
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“Bellamy said you left,” Vincent murmured, burying his face against her hands, his broad shoulders shaking with the overwhelming release of a grief that had finally reached its end. “He showed me a note. He said you couldn't live with what I was.”
“Bellamy is a coward,” Sofia said, her eyes flashing with cold fire. “And he’s about to find out what happens when you steal three years from a Moretti.”
