Chapter 3 - The Chase Across State Lines
Within an hour, the living room of Camille’s childhood home had been converted into an impromptu command center. Dante’s technical specialists had set up secure encrypted laptops on the dining table, tapping into private server logs while Diane, Camille’s mother, sat in the kitchen utterly shell-shocked, whispering apologies to anyone who would listen as she canceled the catering contracts.
Camille sat at the kitchen island, staring down at a cup of black coffee she hadn't touched. Nadia stood beside her, occasionally glaring over at Dante’s heavily armed associates who lingered near the front entrance.
"We traced his secondary burner phone," one of Dante’s tech operatives announced, spinning his laptop around so Dante and Camille could see. "It pinged twenty minutes ago near a private airstrip outside Rockford, Illinois. He’s booked a private charter flight under an alias to the Bahamas."
Dante crossed his arms, leaning over the screen. "A private charter? Where did a mid-level corporate drone get the liquidity for a private flight to the Caribbean?"
"He liquidated three of Mara’s offshore accounts yesterday afternoon," Dante’s second-in-command, a scarred veteran named Sal, muttered darkly. "He cleaned her out before she even realized what was happening."
Camille stood up from the stool, her chair scraping sharply against the hardwood floor. All eyes turned to her.
"He’s running to the coast," Camille said, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere.
Dante looked at her, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "You know his patterns?"
"We took a trip to his uncle’s cabin in northern Michigan last summer," Camille explained, her mind racing back through two years of memories, filtering out the lies to find the hard geography of truth. "There’s an old private airstrip near Traverse City that isn't monitored by commercial air traffic control. He talked about it once—how easy it would be to vanish if things ever went south at the firm."
Sal pulled up a regional map on the secondary screen, tracing a finger across the upper peninsula of Michigan. "She’s right. There’s an inactive municipal tarmac owned by a shell corporation tied directly to Trevor’s corporate partners."
Dante straightened up, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket. He looked at Camille with an expression that held a strange mixture of professional respect and grim sympathy.
"Then we intercept him before he clears customs," Dante said.
Camille grabbed her leather jacket off the back of the chair.
Dante paused, his hand on the door handle. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I’m coming with you," Camille said flatly.
"Absolutely not," Dante replied instantly. "This isn't a domestic dispute anymore. This is a syndicate retrieval operation. It’s dangerous."
"You think my life hasn't already been upended by this coward?" Camille stepped right up to him, refusing to shrink back beneath his intimidating height and dangerous aura. "He lied to me for two years. He humiliated my family, stole my future, and made a mockery of everything I believed in. You want your sister’s money back and your family’s honor defended? Fine. But I want answers. And I want to watch his face when he realizes his clever little exit plan just hit a brick wall."
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Dante stared at her for a long, tense beat. The room seemed to hold its breath. Then, slowly, a corner of his mouth ticked upward in a ghost of a smile.
"Get your jacket, Camille," Dante said quietly. "We leave in five minutes."
