Chapter 8 - MY FATHER’S SECRET
My father had been dead for nine years.
Thomas Vale.
Accountant.
Widower.
Quiet man who loved baseball, burned grilled cheese sandwiches and never earned more than a comfortable middle-class salary.
At least that was the father I knew.
Victor suggested otherwise.
I drove to the small house in Evanston where I grew up.
Federal protection followed.
In the attic, beneath boxes of Christmas decorations and my old college textbooks, I found a locked metal case.
My key didn’t fit.
A hammer did.
Inside were financial records.
Hundreds.
Names.
Dates.
Account numbers.
And a photograph.
My father stood beside Vincent Cross.
Dorian’s father.
Both men looked twenty years younger.
I sat on the dusty floor.
“No.”
Agent Reed examined the image.
“You never knew they knew each other?”
“Never.”
At the bottom of the case was a letter addressed to me.
ALINA.
My hands shook as I opened it.
My father’s handwriting filled four pages.
He had worked briefly for Vincent Cross.
Not as a criminal accountant.
As an internal auditor for one of Vincent’s legitimate shipping companies.
He discovered money laundering.
He copied records.
Then he realized a senior accountant was manipulating not only Vincent’s companies but Vincent himself.
Victor Kane.
My father planned to report everything.
Before he could, threats began.
He resigned.
Raised me far away from the Cross family.
And kept copies as insurance.
The final paragraph destroyed me.
If you ever meet Vincent Cross’s oldest son, do not judge him only by his last name. He was a boy surrounded by men who taught him the wrong definition of strength. Whether he becomes them will ultimately be his choice.
I read that sentence three times.
Dorian had met my father once.
At our engagement dinner.
Dad was already sick then.
Had he recognized Dorian?
Had Dorian recognized him?
No.
Dorian had been thirteen when my father left Cross Industries.
The evidence changed the case overnight.
My father’s documents included original ledgers proving Victor had manipulated payments connected to the murders Dorian was accused of ordering.
One payment appeared under Dorian’s authorization code.
But the date mattered.
Dorian had been hospitalized after a motorcycle accident.
Victor had forged it.
By the next morning, prosecutors withdrew the murder allegations.
Dorian remained under investigation for financial crimes he admitted participating in.
But the possibility of life in prison disappeared.
He came home under supervised release.
When he walked through the penthouse door, I stood waiting.
He stopped.
I crossed the room.
This time, I hugged him first.
He buried his face against my hair.
Neither of us spoke.
Sometimes survival doesn’t need words.
Victor was arrested two weeks later at O’Hare Airport using a Canadian passport.
There was no dramatic gunfight.
No final showdown.
Just federal agents waiting beside the gate.
Reality can be surprisingly satisfying.
His trial exposed everything.
Kidnapping.
Extortion.
Financial crimes.
Witness tampering.
Conspiracy.
Attempted murder related to my damaged brakes.
Caleb testified.
Julian testified.
Evelyn testified.
And eventually, Dorian testified.
That was the part he feared most.
Not because Victor could hurt him.
Because Dorian had to publicly admit what he himself had done.
For three days, he described illegal transactions, corrupt partnerships and decisions he had made while building his empire.
The courtroom heard everything.
So did I.
Some truths hurt.
I stayed anyway.
Not because love required blindness.
Because Dorian finally stopped asking me to close my eyes.
Six months into my pregnancy, he accepted a plea agreement.
Eighteen months in federal custody.
Reduced because of his cooperation.
My heart shattered.
But I understood.
Actions had consequences.
He had avoided murder charges he didn’t deserve.
He still had to answer for crimes he did.
His sentencing was scheduled for after the baby’s birth.
The night before our gender ultrasound, we sat together on the balcony.
Chicago glowed beneath us.
“Are you afraid?” I asked.
“Of prison?”
“Yes.”
He thought about it.
“Yes.”
Dorian Cross admitting fear still felt extraordinary.
“I’m more afraid of missing things.”
“Like what?”
“The first word.”
“You probably will.”
He flinched.
I squeezed his hand.
“But eighteen months isn’t forever.”
“No.”
“You’ll come home.”
“Yes.”
“And you will not return to the old businesses.”
“No.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
I looked at him.
“What will Dorian Cross do with himself legally?”
He considered.
“Make pancakes.”
“Terrible career plan.”
“Real estate?”
“Less likely to poison people.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“Alina.”
“Yes?”
“When I’m sentenced, I want you to divorce me if you still want to.”
I stared at him.
“Stop trying to give me exits.”
“I need you to know you have one.”
“I know.”
“You could build another life.”
“I know.”
“Someone normal.”
I laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I dated normal before you.”
“And?”
“Very boring.”
He smiled.
Then our baby kicked.
His hand immediately moved to my stomach.
“You felt that?”
“Yes.”
Another kick.
Dorian frowned.
“Why is the baby violent?”
“Genetics.”
He looked offended.
I laughed until I cried.
The next afternoon, the technician smiled at us.
“Would you like to know?”
Dorian looked at me.
I nodded.
The technician turned the monitor slightly.
“You’re having a daughter.”
Dorian stopped breathing.
“A girl?”
“A healthy baby girl.”
I looked at him.
The most feared man in half of Chicago had tears running down his face.
“A girl,” he whispered.
I squeezed his hand.
He leaned close to my stomach.
Then spoke very seriously.
“Your mother is going to tell you terrible things about me.”
I laughed.
“Accurate things.”
“Probably.”
For the first time in almost a year, the future felt possible.
Then the technician suddenly became quiet.
Her smile disappeared.
She moved the probe.
I saw the change immediately.
“What?”
She didn’t answer.
“What’s wrong?”
Dorian stood.
The technician pressed a button.
“I need the doctor.”
My heart began racing.
“Why?”
She looked at me carefully.
“Your cervix appears to be shortening. It may indicate a risk of premature labor.”
My hands went cold.
Dorian gripped mine.
“How serious?”
“I don’t want to speculate.”
She left quickly.
I looked at my husband.
His face had gone white.
For months we had fought criminals, courts, secrets and each other.
May you like
Now the greatest danger in the room was something none of us could control.
And our daughter was only twenty-six weeks old.
Related Stories
