But something’s wrong.
I run my fingertip over the signature, studying the ink patterns. The curl on the K is off. Too tight, too precise. The pressure is too heavy, like someone was trying too hard to get it right.
I flip through more documents, finding three additional signatures that look like mine but feel wrong. Account transfers, business registrations, shipping authorizations. All bearing my name in handwriting that’s almost but not quite right.
“Alaric,” I call softly.
“What is it?”
“Look at this.” I hold up the financial transfer document. “Do you remember me signing this?”
He examines the paper, frowning. “No. When was it dated?”
“Two weeks ago. But I don’t remember signing any financial transfers.”
“Maybe you signed it during one of the business meetings? There were a lot of documents that day.”
“Maybe.” But even as I say it, I know that’s not right. I’m careful about what I sign, especially financial documents. I would remember authorizing a two-million-dollar transfer.
I find three additional signatures that look like mine but feel wrong. Account transfers, business registrations, shipping authorizations. Some dated within the past month, others going back years—all the way to when I was still with Dante.
“Alaric, look at this.” I spread the papers across the desk. “These older ones are dated from a year ago. Two years ago. Back when I was with Dante.”
“You think he was forging your signature too?”
“I think someone’s been using my identity for years. And recently, someone started doing it again.” I pull out the other suspicious documents, spreading them across the desk. “And what about these?”
Alaric studies each one, his expression growing darker. “I don’t remember you signing any of these.”
“Because I didn’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“Look at the signatures. The handwriting is close. Someone’s been forging my signature.”
“Who would have access to documents requiring your signature?”
“Anyone with administrative access to our accounts. Lawyers, accountants, senior family members.”
We stare at each other as the implications sink in. Someone close to us, someone with intimate access to our business operations, has been using my identity to authorize transactions I know nothing about.
“How much money are we talking about?” I ask.
Alaric adds up the amounts on the four documents. “Eight million dollars.”
“Eight million dollars that went where?”
“I’ll have Benedetto trace the account numbers tomorrow.”
“What if there are more documents? What if this has been going on longer than we think?”
“Then we find out who’s responsible and we handle it.”
The cold finality in his voice reminds me exactly who I married. Alaric Moretti doesn’t just fire employees who steal from him. He buries them.
“This could be connected to Marco’s reports about the West Coast problems,” I say. “Maybe someone’s systematically destabilizing our operations.”
“Or maybe someone’s building a nest egg for when they make their move against the family.”
