Chapter 4 - The Reckoning at Midnight
Joseph DeMarco stared at me for five agonizing seconds, his face turning an unhealthy shade of grey. The arrogant, powerful underboss vanished, replaced by a desperate, cornered man realizing that his thirty-year fortress of lies had just crumbled to dust.
"This is impossible..." Joseph stammered, looking frantically at Vincent. "Vincent, listen to me! This is an imposter! Teresa died in Brooklyn twenty-eight years ago! I saw the body myself! I filed the report!"
"You filed a false report, Joseph," Vincent said softly, laying a thick stack of printed financial ledgers onto the table in front of him. "Just as you filed false tax returns for the syndicate's real estate division for twenty-eight years."
"Vincent, she's a fraud!" Vivian screamed, pointing a manicured finger at me, her voice shrill with desperation. "She was cleaning my shoes two hours ago! She’s a fat, pathetic maid who stole that necklace from a dead woman! Dad, tell him! Tell him she’s lying!"
"Shut up, Vivian!" Joseph roared, turning on his daughter with sudden, terrifying fury.
Vivian flinched, shocked into silence by her father's sudden outburst.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his knee. "You see, Joseph... when Isabella told me she was brought here by DeMarco Staffing Solutions, I had my technical team run a deep forensic audit of your daughter's private company accounts."
Vincent pointed to the papers on the table.
"Three weeks ago, your private investigator located Isabella living quietly in South Boston. You realized that Teresa had survived the fire, and more importantly, that she had left a legitimate heir—an heir who, upon turning twenty-five, automatically inherited the legal title to the Moretti real estate portfolio under my grandfather's original covenant."
Joseph swallowed hard, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Vincent... I can explain—"
"You didn't want to just kill her in Boston," Vincent cut him off, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly analytical tone. "Because a murder investigation in Boston would draw the attention of my federal prosecutors. So your brilliant daughter, Vivian, came up with a much sweeter plan."
Vincent looked directly at Vivian, whose eyes were wide with terror.
"You had your staffing agency hire Isabella under a fake corporate alias," Vincent continued. "You brought her into Belladonna House—my home—on the night of our engagement party. You were going to stage a theft. You were going to accuse her of stealing high-value diamonds from your dressing room, have my corrupt security guards beat her, and ensure she was transferred to a private holding facility in upstate New York... where she would conveniently 'drown' in a transit accident."
I felt a cold shiver run down my spine as I listened to the cold, calculated plot that had been laid out for me. If I hadn't tripped, if the tray hadn't broken, if the top button of my uniform hadn't popped open to reveal the locket—I would have been dead by morning.
"You brought my own cousin into my house to be murdered under my roof," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper that shook the room. "All so your daughter could marry me and claim fifty percent of my family's legacy."
"Vincent... please!" Joseph dropped to his knees right beside his chair, his hands clasped together in desperate plea. "I did it for the family! Your father was weak! He was going to give half the syndicate's wealth to a woman who wanted nothing to do with the business! I built the DeMarco holdings from nothing! I served the Moretti family for forty years!"
"You didn't serve my family, Joseph," Vincent said, standing up slowly from the head of the table. "You bled it."
Vincent reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a heavy, black customized firearm, and laid it quietly on the dark oak table right in front of Joseph.
The heavy metallic clack echoed through the quiet room like a death sentence.
"You have two choices, Joseph," Vincent said flatly. "Choice one: You sign over every single asset, every property, and every offshore account held under the DeMarco name to Isabella Teresa Romano right now. You take full, written responsibility for the 1998 arson attack and hand yourself over to the federal prosecutors waiting outside my gate."
Joseph trembled, looking at the gun on the table, then up at Vincent's emotionless face. "And... and choice two?"
Vincent didn't answer verbally. He simply looked down at the gun, then shifted his icy grey eyes toward the large floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened out onto the snow-covered cliffs behind the mansion.
Joseph understood immediately. Choice two meant he would never leave Belladonna House alive, and his daughter would be left entirely at the mercy of the Moretti syndicate.
Vivian fell out of her chair, collapsing onto the carpet, sobbing uncontrollably. "Dad... please... don't let them take everything! Vincent, I loved you! I loved you for three years!"
"You didn't love me, Vivian," Vincent said without a shred of pity, looking down at her as if she were dirt on his shoe. "You loved the crown. And you were willing to murder an innocent woman to wear it."
Joseph DeMarco slowly reached out his shaking hand, picked up the silver fountain pen resting beside the legal documents, and began signing his name on the line, page after page, giving away thirty years of stolen wealth to the daughter of the woman he had tried to destroy.
As he signed the final page, two federal agents accompanied by four of Vincent's tactical guards stepped through the dining room doors.
"Joseph DeMarco," the lead agent said, stepping forward with handcuffs drawn. "You are under arrest for federal racketeering, conspiracy to commit murder, and grand larceny."
As the agents slapped the steel cuffs around Joseph's wrists and dragged him out of the room, Vivian scrambled toward Vincent's feet, grabbing at his trousers. "Vincent! Please! Don't let them take me! I didn't know about the fire! I was just doing what my father told me!"
Vincent stepped back, disengaging his trouser leg from her manicured hands.
"Marco," Vincent commanded coldly. "Take Miss DeMarco to the local precinct. File formal charges for corporate fraud, physical assault with a weapon, and labor exploitation regarding her treatment of the estate staff."
"No! Vincent! NO!" Vivian screamed as two guards dragged her, kicking and crying, out through the grand double doors, her silver-blue evening gown tearing against the doorframe—the very dress she had been so worried about two hours ago.
The heavy oak doors swung shut, leaving only Vincent, Marco, and me in the silent dining room.
I stood near the table, my hands resting against the dark wood, feeling the sheer weight of the night washing over me. In less than six hours, my entire life had been completely torn down and rebuilt from the ashes.
May you like
Vincent walked over to where I stood. He picked up the signed legal documents from the table and gently placed them into my hands.
"It's over, Isabella," Vincent said softly, his grey eyes finally softening into genuine warmth. "Your mother's name is cleared. Your home is safe. And no one in this city will ever make you feel small again."
