Chapter 8 - The Judgment of the House
Vincent stood beside his wife, one hand resting lightly on the small of her back, anchoring her against the physical and emotional storm of the past three years. He didn't look at Isabella. He didn't look at the expensive white roses that now seemed like a grotesque mockery of a wedding that would never happen.
He looked entirely at Charles Bellamy.
“Charlie,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “We’ve known each other for twenty years. You handled my father’s estate. You drafted the corporate charters that kept this family out of federal penitentiaries.”
Charles swallowed hard, his voice trembling. “Vince... let me go. I have offshore accounts. I can transfer the holdings back to your name. All of them. Fifty million dollars in unencumbered maritime stock. It’s yours.”
“I don't want your stolen stock, Charlie,” Vincent replied, his slate-gray eyes locking onto the attorney’s terrified pupils. “I want what you took from my wife. I want the three years you stole from our lives.”
“You can't bring those back!”
“No,” Vincent agreed. “I can't. But I can make sure you spend every remaining year of your natural life reflecting on the cost of treason.”
He turned to his cousin. “Dominic.”
“Yeah, Vince?”
“Take Charles to the shipping yard in Bayonne. Lock him in the sub-level container vault until the federal marshals arrive in the morning with the RICO warrants. Make sure he has a flashlight and a single notepad so he can write down every single name involved in this conspiracy.”
“Done,” Dominic said, grabbing Charles by the collar and hauling him to his feet without a word of resistance.
As Charles was dragged screaming out of the ballroom, Dominic paused near the service entrance, looking down at Grace and her eight-year-old daughter.
“And as for you, Mrs. Carter,” Dominic said, his rough voice softening considerably.
Grace tightened her grip on Emily’s shoulder, her face pale. “Mr. Moretti... I’m sorry I didn't give you the phone sooner. I was afraid—"
“You kept my wife’s lifeline safe for three days inside a sewing box,” Dominic interrupted, a rare, genuine smile touching his weathered face. “And your little girl had the courage to hit play when a room full of grown men were about to sign away their souls.”
Dominic reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a thick envelope stamped with the Moretti corporate seal, and pressed it into Grace’s hands.
“What is this?” Grace asked, her hands trembling.
“It’s the deed to the historic brick home on Maple Street,” Dominic said quietly. “Fully paid in full, with a lifetime educational trust for Emily. Consider it rent for letting us use your sewing box.”
May you like
Grace stared at the envelope, tears finally spilling over her eyelashes. She looked at Vincent and Sofia, unable to find the words to thank them.
“Go home, Grace,” Sofia said warmly. “You and Emily have earned your rest.”
