Chapter 7 - The Reckoning at the Gates
By eleven o'clock that morning, the sky over Long Island had cleared into a hard, pale blue. The sun was bright, but it carried no warmth, reflecting off the fresh blanket of six-inch white snow that covered the lawns and trees of the Moretti estate.
I pulled the Range Rover up to the heavy iron front gates.
The gates were closed.
Parked inside the grounds, blocking the main gravel driveway, were three dark sedans. Standing in the snow near the gatehouse were four men in heavy dark overcoats—men I recognized from the family's port operations in Newark.
Dante hadn't gone to a hospital. He had called in the enforcement arm of our commercial firm.
As my SUV stopped near the iron bars, the gatehouse door opened. Marco Vane stepped out, wearing his tactical parka. His face was grim, his eyes tired.
He walked over to my driver's side window. I rolled the glass down three inches.
"Mr. Moretti," Marco said, his breath pluming white in the freezing air. "I told you to stay away."
"It's my house, Marco," I said flatly.
"It's not your house anymore, Vince," Marco said, dropping the formal 'Mr. Moretti' for the first time. "Dante called a board meeting at nine o'clock this morning. He brought in two attorneys from Manhattan and six shop stewards from the dockworkers local. They declared you mentally unfit to manage estate assets based on your medical history after your daughter died."
I listened. I didn't flinch. I had known this was coming the moment I drove away last night.
"They brought a court order, Marco?" I asked softly.
"They don't need a court order, Vince," Marco said, looking down at the snow near his boots. "Dante has power of attorney signed by you in twenty-twenty-one. You signed it when you were in the psychiatric facility in Vermont. You gave him full authority over the family trusts, the estate property, and the firm's bank accounts."
I remembered that room in Vermont.
I remembered the quiet, sterile white walls, the heavy sedation the doctors had given me to stop the screaming after Sofia's funeral, and Dante sitting by my bedside with a stack of legal documents, his voice smooth and comforting as he told me he would handle everything so I could rest.
He had planned this four years ago.
"Is he inside?" I asked.
"He's in the main house," Marco nodded. "He brought four guys from Newark with him. They're armed, Vince. Dante's face is a mess, and he's talking crazy. He says if you step onto this property, he's going to have them shoot you and claim self-defense under the estate's private security laws."
I looked past Marco through the iron bars of the gate, up the long, winding gravel drive toward the massive granite mansion sitting atop the hill.
"Marco," I said, my voice dropping into that low, flat register. "Are you going to try to stop me?"
Marco Vane looked into my eyes for five long seconds.
He saw no fear. He saw no hesitation. He saw only the cold, unyielding weight of a man who had already lost everything that mattered seven years ago, and therefore had nothing left in the world to be afraid of.
Marco stepped back from the vehicle.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small electronic remote control, and pressed the heavy brass button.
The iron front gates hummed to life, their heavy hydraulic arms groaning as they swung slowly inward, clearing the path up the hill.
Marco looked at me through the open window.
"I paid my father's house off, Vince," Marco said softly. "I'm clear. My men are stepping back. Whatever happens up at that house... it's between you and your brother."
May you like
"Thank you, Marco," I said.
I stepped on the accelerator, the heavy Range Rover crunching over the fresh snow as it rolled through the open gates and climbed the hill toward the mansion.
