Chapter 5 - The Estate in Long Island
The Moretti estate in Old Westbury, Long Island, was a sprawling stone manor surrounded by twenty acres of dense forest and secured by an eight-foot wrought-iron wall topped with security cameras.
Our car passed through the heavy iron security gates at eight o’clock that evening.
Lily’s eyes were wide with amazement as she pressed her small face against the tinted car window, looking out at the grand fountain, the manicured lawns, and the massive stone pillars framing the front entrance.
“Is this a castle, Mommy?” Lily asked in an awed whisper.
“It’s just a big house, sweetie,” I murmured, holding her tight against my side.
Dominic sat across from us in the leather interior of the armored SUV, his phone pressed to his ear as he issued quiet, rapid-fire directives to his security teams across the city.
“Increase guard rotations at the docks. Lock down all administrative files in the shipping division. And tell Uncle Anthony I expect him at the estate for dinner at eight tomorrow night.”
Dominic hung up the phone and looked across at me.
“My mother passed away when I was twelve,” Dominic said softly, his eyes softening as he looked at Lily. “My father lived here alone for years. It’s been quiet for a long time. It’s good to have life in these halls again.”
We stepped into the grand foyer. Heavy wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, and oil paintings of past generations covered the walls.
A tall, elderly housekeeper in a dark dress stepped forward, smiling warmly at Lily.
“Welcome, Miss Anna,” the housekeeper said kindly. “I am Mrs. Gable. I have prepared the master guest suite on the second floor for you and little Lily.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gable,” I said, feeling overwhelming relief wash over me.
After Mrs. Gable led Lily upstairs to settle her into a magnificent bedroom with a canopy bed, Dominic led me down a long, dimly lit corridor into his father’s private study.
The room smelled of old leather, mahogany wood, and pipe tobacco. A massive desk sat beneath a portrait of Vincent Moretti—a stern-faced man with piercing gray eyes, looking almost identical to Dominic.
Dominic walked over to a heavy wall safe hidden behind a bookshelf. He turned the combination dial, pulled open the steel door, and pulled out a thick, black leather-bound ledger.
He laid it on the desk between us.
“My father kept a private journal during the last two years of his life,” Dominic said quietly. “I read parts of it after he died, but I never understood what he was referring to... until tonight.”
Dominic flipped open the ledger to a page dated five years ago.
Written in Vincent Moretti’s shaky, aging handwriting were three sentences:
‘Anthony is moving money out of the port accounts into offshore shell companies in Panama. Elena warned me before she died. I must ensure Anna’s trust is secured before Anthony discovers the transfer clause. If I die before she turns thirty-five, Dominic must protect her.’
I covered my mouth, tears brimming in my eyes. “Your father... he knew.”
“He knew,” Dominic said, stepping close to me, his presence warm and steady in the quiet room. “He knew my uncle was corrupt. But my father died before he could tell me the truth. Anthony hid your letters, Anna. He isolated my father in his final months so this secret would die with him.”
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Dominic reached out, his long fingers gently wiping a tear from my cheek.
“Tomorrow night, Anthony comes to this house,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into iron determination. “And he’s going to answer for everything he did to my father... and to you.”
