Chapter 3 - THE RECKONING OF THE HOUSE OF MORETTI
I walked slowly back toward Beatrice Vance, the heavy clack of my shoes echoing off the marble floor. The remaining guests avoided my gaze, staring intently at their water glasses, napkins, or chandeliers, desperate to make themselves invisible.
"Mrs. Vance," I said, stopping two paces away from her.
She didn't cower. She raised her chin, her eyes flashing with a stubborn, fierce pride that had clearly been passed down to her daughter—though Chloe had corrupted it into greed, while Beatrice had used it to survive.
"Go ahead," Beatrice said, her voice trembling only slightly. "Call your lawyers. Have me arrested for trespassing. Do whatever your kind does to people who ruin your dinner parties."
I looked down at the worn leather handbag in her hands, then back to her face.
"Marco," I called out.
Marco reappeared from the hallway, having swiftly delegated Camille’s ejection to the junior guards. "Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"Bring the car around. And have the private jet prepped for a flight to Zurich on Wednesday." I paused, turning back to Beatrice. "Mrs. Vance, I assume you haven't eaten dinner?"
Beatrice blinked, caught entirely off guard. "What?"
"I asked if you've eaten," I repeated calmly. "Because my chef prepared a six-course meal that is currently going to waste because my guests have lost their appetites. I refuse to let good food spoil."
A murmur of nervous shock rippled through the remaining tables.
Beatrice stared at me, searching my face for sarcasm or cruelty, finding neither. "I... no. I took the bus from Dorchester this morning. I haven't eaten since breakfast."
"Then please," I said, gesturing toward the head of the table where Camille's empty chair sat like a monument to human folly. "Join me. We have a great deal to discuss regarding your daughter's financial... creative accounting."
She hesitated for three seconds, then walked past me, her heavy boots clicking against the marble, and took the seat that had belonged to my fiancée less than ten minutes ago.
I sat down opposite her, picked up my cloth napkin, and draped it across my lap.
"Marco," I said quietly as he stood nearby. "Check on Elena. Make sure Dr. Sterling has administered proper burn treatment. And transfer fifty thousand dollars from my personal account into her name—compensation for workplace hazard and emotional distress. If she needs to take a month off to recover with full pay, arrange it."
Marco’s eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter—a rare sign of surprise from a man who had seen me execute hostile corporate takeovers with zero remorse. "Right away, sir."
Beatrice watched the exchange, her expression shifting from suspicion to profound, quiet astonishment. She picked up a silver fork, turning it over in her calloused fingers.
"You're not what I expected," Beatrice murmured, cutting a small piece of roasted lamb that a trembling waiter hurried over to serve her.
"Most people aren't," I replied, pouring a glass of Barolo wine and pushing it across the table toward her. "They see the name Moretti on the front page of the Globe and assume I’m a mob boss in a tailored suit. Sometimes they're right. But I have rules. And one of those rules is that people who lie to my face, steal from their families, and abuse people under my roof do not survive in my world."
Beatrice took a slow sip of the wine, closing her eyes as the rich vintage warmed her throat. She set the glass down and looked directly across the table at me.
"Chloe was always smart," Beatrice said softly, a shadow of maternal grief crossing her features. "Too smart for her own good. She had an artist's eye for luxury and a gambler's instinct for risk. When her father died, and the shipyard shut down, we had nothing. I worked three cleaning jobs just to keep the lights on in our cramped apartment in Dorchester. I thought... I thought sending her to university would save her. I didn't know she was learning how to become a thief."
"She didn't just steal from you," I said, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the mahogany. "She stole from my trust. She used forged banking documents to pass my initial background checks six months ago, scrubbing her criminal record in Suffolk County using a network of high-priced fixers I usually employ myself."
Beatrice frowned. "Fixers? You mean people who clean up messes for rich men?"
"Exactly," I said. "Which means someone inside my own corporate security apparatus helped her hide her past from me. Someone helped Chloe Vance become Camille Laurent."
The dining room seemed to drop another ten degrees.
May you like
Beatrice set her fork down. "You think she had help inside your own empire?"
"I don't think," I said, my voice dropping into that cold, lethal register that made Marco check his pistol holster near the door. "I know. Because no one gets past my corporate firewall without a cryptographic key. And there are only four people in this building who hold that key."
