She nodded, concern creasing her forehead.
“In his study. Robert!” she called. “Anahi’s here.”
My father emerged from his study, reading glasses perched on his nose and a calculator in hand. He was likely working on finances for the investment, I realized, with a pang of guilt for what I was about to reveal.
“This is a nice surprise,” he said, embracing me. “Though you look serious. What’s going on?”
“Let’s sit down,” I suggested, moving toward the living room.
Once we were settled, I took a deep breath.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you about my job.”
My parents exchanged worried glances.
“I don’t work in administrative government services. I’m a Deputy U.S. Marshal.”
Their expressions shifted from concern to confusion.
“A U.S. Marshal?” my father repeated. “Like law enforcement?”
I nodded, reaching into my purse to produce my credentials.
“I’ve been with the Service for over three years. I use Mom’s maiden name professionally—Bellini. That’s why the family doesn’t know.”
My mother took the credentials, examining them with wide eyes.
“But why keep this secret? This is amazing, Anahi.”
“At first, it was because I wanted to prove myself without family expectations or comparisons,” I explained. “Later, it became necessary for security reasons. But that’s not why I’m telling you now.”
I leaned forward, choosing my next words carefully.
“I’m working on a sensitive case, and I’ve learned something that affects you directly. You need to delay your investment with Uncle Troy.”
“What?” My father looked startled. “What does your job have to do with Troy’s development project?”
“I can’t give you specific details, but there are concerns about some of his business practices. The investment isn’t what it appears to be.”
My parents sat in stunned silence, trying to process this abrupt collision of worlds.
“Are you saying Troy is breaking the law?” my mother finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m saying there’s an ongoing investigation, and until it’s resolved, you shouldn’t invest your money or sign any paperwork,” I replied diplomatically. “I wouldn’t tell you this if it wasn’t serious.”
My father’s expression hardened.
“It’s not just this investment, is it? There were others. The Cambridge project in 2016. The Southie renovation in 2019. We lost over two hundred thousand between them.”
I nodded grimly.
“Those may have been structured similarly. And there’s more.”
I hesitated before continuing.
“I found records of my college fund—the trust Grandpa set up for me when I was born. Uncle Troy liquidated it the year I started college, claiming it was repayment for a debt.”
“What?” My mother’s hand flew to her mouth. “That’s impossible. Your grandfather established that trust specifically so it couldn’t be touched by anyone but you for educational expenses.”
My father’s face had gone pale.
“We trusted him with all the family finances after your grandfather died. He said the market crash had depleted the college funds, that there was nothing left.”
“He lied,” I said simply. “And he’s been lying about much more.”
The revelation hung heavy in the air between us, decades of family dynamics and power structures re-contextualized in an instant.
“No wonder you kept your distance,” my mother said softly. “All those years of him talking down to you and you were out there protecting people while he was…”
She broke off, unable to complete the thought.
“What happens now?” my father asked, his voice steadier than I expected.
“Now, you cancel your meeting with him. If he asks why, say you’ve decided to consult with an independent financial adviser first. Don’t mention anything about an investigation or my real job.”
They nodded, still processing.
“There’s one more thing,” I continued. “The U.S. Marshals Service would like your help.”
“Our help?” My father looked surprised. “How?”
“We need evidence of how these investment solicitations work. With your consent, we’d like you to proceed with the initial meeting but wear recording devices. You wouldn’t be in any danger. We’d have agents nearby at all times.”
My parents exchanged glances, having one of those silent conversations long-married couples perfect over decades.
“If he stole from our daughter, from us, from the family,” my father began.
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