Delia’s hand stayed on my wrist until I stopped reaching for the mouse. “Your father spent twenty years building this,” she said quietly. “And the last two years watching your sister’s husband try to take it apart from the inside.” The screen filled with Dominic’s file, and my stomach turned. Payments. Transfers. And beneath them, a pattern Delia had flagged in red.

“Dominic wasn’t just a vendor,” she said. “He was skimming from the network, and when your father found out, he started quietly moving everything out of reach.” I looked at the note in my hand, at my father’s careful handwriting, and finally understood why a man who repaired trucks had built a steel door in the mountains and handed the only key to me. Then Delia opened the last file, and I saw what my father had really been afraid of.