Chapter 8 - The Ledger of the Dead
Three days later.
The rain had passed, replaced by a brilliant, crisp autumn morning that turned the hills around Greystone into a sea of deep red, orange, and gold.
In the private study of the estate, the heavy velvet drapes were pulled wide open for the first time in five years. Sunlight flooded across the polished mahogany desk, illuminating stacks of legal documents, land deeds, and corporate certificates.
Sitting in the high-backed leather chair behind the desk was Vincent. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his hair neatly combed, looking ten years younger than he had seventy-two hours ago.
Sitting across from him was Gabriel—Vincent’s chief legal counsel and head of intelligence, a sharp-eyed man of fifty who had managed the syndicate’s legal shield for two decades.
On the desk between them lay the red leather binder that Vincent had retrieved from the trunk of Marco’s Mercedes at the gatehouse.
“It’s all here, Boss,” Gabriel said, tapping the open pages of the binder with a silver pen. “Marco kept meticulous records of every dollar he diverted from the Atlantic shipping contracts over the last five years. Total amount: seventy-two million dollars.”
Vincent took a slow sip of his black coffee. “And the accounts in France?”
“Isabella’s trust in Nice was genuine,” Gabriel explained softly. “Marco did fake her death, but he forced her to sign over sixty percent of her inheritance into a shell company controlled by his brother in Chicago. When Isabella passed away two years ago, Elena was left with nothing because Marco blocked her access to the probate court.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained entirely calm. “Transfer seventy-two million dollars from Marco’s seized accounts directly into a private, irrevocable trust under Elena Rossi’s name. Give her full voting control over forty percent of Moretti International’s real-estate portfolio.”
Gabriel blinked in surprise, his silver pen pausing above his pad. “Vincent... that makes her one of the wealthiest women in New York overnight.”
“She is my stepdaughter, Gabriel,” Vincent said, looking out the large floor-to-ceiling windows toward the garden. “And her daughter is my family. She will never have to beg for a job or fear a man again.”
Gabriel smiled warmly, bowing his head respectfully. “It will be done by noon, Boss. What about the Capos in Chicago and Philadelphia? They know Marco is dead. They are asking questions about the union contracts.”
Vincent set his coffee cup down on the saucer with a soft, authoritative CLINK.
“Tell the Capos,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, dark register that made men sit up straight, “that Don Moretti has returned to the table. Tell them that if any man from Chicago or Philadelphia sets foot in New York without my personal invitation, they will find their bodies at the bottom of the Hudson River.”
Gabriel’s eyes lit up with deep satisfaction. “Understood, Boss. It is good to have you back.”
Gabriel gathered his files, bowed, and walked out of the study, closing the heavy oak doors quietly behind him.
Vincent stood up from his desk and walked over to the window.
Outside, on the vast green lawn near the rose garden, Elena was sitting on a wrought-iron bench wearing a bright yellow cardigan, reading a magazine in the warm sunshine.
A few yards away, three-year-old Mia was running through the autumn leaves, laughing hysterically as she chased a golden retriever puppy that Vincent had bought for her yesterday from a local breeder.
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Her brown curls bounced in the sunlight, exposing the tiny, crimson V-shaped birthmark on the nape of her neck.
Vincent stared at the child, feeling a deep, profound sense of peace wash over his soul—a peace he had believed was lost forever in a cemetery in Boston.
