Chapter 4 - THE CLEANUP OF GREENWICH
Two hours later, the medical team at St. Jude’s finished my post-delivery examination.
Dr. Aris Thorne—a brilliant chief of obstetrics who had been personally briefed by my father’s security team twenty minutes prior—stepped into the room with a silver tray.
"Mrs. Moretti... pardon me, Mrs. Vance," Dr. Thorne corrected himself smoothly, offering me a polite, respectful bow. "Your vitals are stable. The swelling on your cheek has been treated with a topical ice compression. And little Arthur is in perfect health."
"Thank you, Doctor," I said softly, adjusting the yellow blanket around my baby.
"A private medical helicopter is waiting on the roof helipad," Dad said, standing by the window with his hands behind his back, looking down at the hospital parking lot below.
Down on the street, three black Chevrolet Suburbans with tinted windows and federal government plates were parked in a formation, cutting off access to the emergency room entrance. Local Greenwich police cruisers were stationed two blocks away, directing civilian traffic away from the hospital perimeter.
"Where are we going, Dad?" I asked.
"Home," my father replied, turning back to me. His face softened as he looked at me and the baby. "Back to the family compound in the Shenandoah Valley. Chloe, Maya, Lily, and Grace are already on a private transport plane out of White Plains. They’ll be waiting for you when we land."
"What about the house in Greenwich?" I asked. "David’s mother... his sister... they’re staying in the guest wing. They were planning a grand celebration party for the birth of 'the Moretti heir'."
My father pulled his black military satellite phone from his pocket, tossing it lightly in his hand.
"The Moretti family is currently learning the true cost of their arrogance," Dad said quietly. "Marco is handling the Greenwich property as we speak."
At that exact moment, five miles away, inside the twelve-million-dollar Mediterranean-style estate on Orchard Lane in Greenwich, Connecticut...
Victoria Moretti—David’s mother—sat in the grand salon, sipping tea from a delicate Herend porcelain cup. She was dressed in a tailored knit suit, her diamond rings glittering under the crystal chandelier. Sitting beside her was Julianna, David’s younger sister, who was busy taking selfies on her phone, showing off the designer handbag David had bought her the previous week.
"I hope Sarah doesn't take too long in recovery," Victoria sniffed haughtily, setting her teacup down on the marble coaster. "She needs to be home by tomorrow to supervise the caterers. We have eighty guests arriving for the baby’s presentation party on Sunday."
"I still can't believe David finally got his boy," Julianna laughed, editing her photo with a heavy filter. "Now he can finally stop pretending to care about those four little girls. Honestly, four daughters was so embarrassing for the family name."
BOOM.
The heavy, twelve-foot wrought-iron front gates of the estate were suddenly rammed off their hinges with a deafening screech of tearing metal.
Victoria dropped her teacup, the fine porcelain shattering across the Persian rug. "What on earth is that?!"
Before Julianna could answer, the heavy double oak front doors of the mansion were kicked inward with explosive force.
A squad of ten federal marshals, dressed in tactical gear and carrying battering rams and evidence boxes, poured into the grand foyer. Leading them was Marco Vance—my father’s younger brother, a former Colonel in the Army Corps of Engineers and the head of Vance Security Logistics.
Marco was six-foot-four, wore a black leather jacket, and carried a tablet displaying an official Federal Asset Seizure Order.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Victoria screamed, springing to her feet, her face flushed with outrage. "Do you know whose house this is?! This is the residence of David Moretti! Vice President of Sterling Capital! Get out of my home this instant or I will have my son destroy you!"
Marco didn't even look at her. He tapped his tablet screen and pointed at two tactical officers.
"Clear the house," Marco commanded flatly. "Seize all vehicles in the six-car garage. Tag all fine art, jewelry, high-value electronics, and designer goods for civil asset forfeiture under Federal Docket #9902."
"Hey! Don't touch my bags!" Julianna shrieked as an officer walked into the parlor and picked up her ten-thousand-dollar Hermes Birkin bag, dropping it into a yellow evidence sack. "That’s mine! David bought that for me!"
"David Moretti bought that with laundered money from an offshore cartel account," Marco said, walking up to the fireplace mantle and picking up a gold-framed portrait of David. He popped the frame open, pulled out the photo, and tossed the gold frame into an evidence box. "All assets purchased through Sterling Capital accounts are now property of the United States Treasury."
"Where is David?!" Victoria trembled, her arrogant composure finally shattering as five federal agents began packing up her silver serving sets and crystal vases into cardboard boxes. "Where is my son?!"
Marco looked down at the older woman, his dark eyes devoid of pity.
"David is currently sitting in a windowless cell at the Metropolitan Correctional Center in Manhattan," Marco said coldly. "He’s being charged with federal treason, cartel money laundering, grand fraud, and felony domestic assault."
"Assault?!" Victoria gasped. "Against who?!"
"Against Sarah Vance," Marco replied. "The daughter of General Arthur Vance."
Victoria’s heart dropped into her stomach. "General... Vance? Arthur? That... that old man in the pickup truck?"
"The 'old man' you treated like a butler for six years," Marco smiled grimly. "You have fifteen minutes to gather your personal clothing and leave this property. After that, the doors will be padlocked, and federal marshals will tow your Mercedes from the driveway."
"Fifteen minutes?!" Julianna cried, clutching her phone. "Where are we supposed to go?!"
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Marco turned his back on them, walking toward the grand staircase to oversee the seizure of David’s private master bedroom safe.
"I suggest you call a cab," Marco called back over his shoulder. "Because as of five minutes ago, your credit cards don't work either."
