Page 7 of Powerful Deception
What will I find if I do this? If I let my fingers move and type out the names of the powerful individuals, I’ve heard for most of my life?
More blood? Skeletons?
I don’t know but I won’t know until I do.
Ignoring the pain medicine that I have next to my laptop and the wine bottles calling my name, I take a deep breath. Mentally preparing myself for whatever is going to pop up when my fingers start to move and I hit the enter key.
Putting aside all my fears, I start to type into the search engine.
I type in the first name that is currently over taking my mind.
The Devil of Chicago.
That seems like a good starting point as any.
Especially if he really is what people describe him to be.
The second I hit the search button, over a hundred thousand results pop up.
The first result grabs my attention with the heading “Who really is the devil of Chicago?”
I guess I’m not the only one who is wondering.
As I click on it and wait for the screen to load, a knock on my door takes me out of the cloud I’m in.
I look over at the door, since my apartment is a small studio, as if I can see who is on the other side. My heart starts to beat fast in my chest remembering who the last person to knock on my door was.
It was my dad only a few days before all of this shit started. That thought brings tears to my eyes, but I push them down.
Getting up from my seat, my whole body swaying in the process, I head over to the door.
Could it be my dad’s murder found me and is here to stop me from digging into the death?
Maybe it’s the cops and they are here to tell me that they found whoever is responsible, making my research a moot point.
I’m almost hopeful at the second thought when I reach the door and open it, but that hope quickly disappears when I see a woman standing on the other side and not a detective.
At least I don’t think she’s a detective.
She’s beautiful and from the way she is dressed, very well put together. Her honey-colored hair is half up and half down, the style fitting her face perfectly. She looks young and doesn’t look like she belongs in my apartment building.
“Can I help you?” I ask, my voice sounding like it hasn’t been used in days.
Thinking about it, I don’t think I’ve said a word since the funeral.
“Arianna Vitale?” Even her voice is like honey.
“Yes?” There is a questioning tone in my words.
“My name is Ella Vincent, I’m with the Lane Family Foundation and I’m here in regard to your father’s death.”
The Lane Family Foundation?
What the fuck?
What does one of the richest family in Chicago want to do with me and my dad’s death?
“What about my father’s death?” I ask, on high alert now.