Chapter 3 - The Anatomy of a Collapse
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Richard Cole bellowed, stepping in front of his son, puffing out his chest like an enraged turkey. He pointed a thick, diamond-ringed finger at Dominic’s chest. “You people—you thugs, you trash from the docks—you have no idea whose property you’ve just broken onto! I’ll have every single one of you arrested before midnight! I know the district attorney! I fund his campaigns!”
Dominic didn't even look at Richard. He kept walking straight toward me, his eyes never leaving my face.
When he reached me, he shrugged off his heavy charcoal overcoat and draped it gently over my shoulders. The wool was warm, heavy, and smelled faintly of cedar and expensive cologne. It completely swallowed my shaking frame, hiding the torn fabric of my blouse and the angry red welts across my back.
“You okay, Ellie?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping all its ice, turning into the fierce, protective warmth of an older brother who had scraped my knees when we were kids.
“I’m fine, Dom,” I whispered, my voice thick. “Just tired.”
“Good.” Dominic turned his head slowly, his eyes finally locking onto Richard Cole. “Now... let’s talk about your dad, Richard. You were saying something about the district attorney?”
Gabriel Moretti stepped up beside Dominic, sliding a slim, gold-encrusted tablet from his inner pocket. He tapped the screen twice with a manicured finger.
“Won't be needing the DA, Richard,” Gabriel said, his tone conversational, almost polite. “In fact, as of four minutes ago, the municipal ethics board just froze all seventy-four of your active municipal construction permits across the tri-state area. Turns out, your foundation sub-contractors have been using substandard Chinese rebar and bribing city inspectors with offshore accounts registered in the Cayman Islands. My forensic team compiled the dossier six months ago. I just hit ‘send’ to the FBI’s white-collar crime division.”
Richard’s face drained of color so fast it looked digital. He staggered backward, his hand catching the edge of the champagne tower. Glasses rattled frantically. “That’s—that’s a lie! You can't do that! That’s corporate espionage!”
“It’s not espionage, Richard, it’s an audit,” Gabriel corrected smoothly, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. “And by morning, your stock is going to drop so low they’ll be trading your company shares for half-eaten sandwiches.”
Vanessa Hart, the mistress who had stood smiling under the chandelier just ten minutes ago, let out a strangled gasp. Her silver designer dress—the one I had supposedly ‘ruined’ with a splash of merlot—suddenly looked like a shroud. She backed away toward the French doors, her heels clicking frantically against the marble.
“Matteo,” Dominic said without looking back.
“On it, Dom,” Matteo grunted.
With two long strides, Matteo intercepted Vanessa before she could reach the patio doors. He didn't touch her roughly; he simply placed one massive hand against the doorframe, blocking her path. He looked down at her with a look of mild, profound disgust, the way a person might look at a cockroach crawling across a kitchen counter.
“Nice dress, sweetheart,” Matteo said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Shame about the upcoming federal investigation into how your boutique has been laundering cash for the Cole development front companies through fake invoice shells. Nico already pulled the tax returns. You’re looking at ten to twenty years, minimum. Might want to trade those heels for some comfortable orange slippers.”
May you like
Vanessa let out a small, pathetic shriek and burst into hysterical tears, sinking to the floor in a crumpled heap of silver silk.
None of the fifty elite guests moved to help her. They were all pressed tightly against the far walls, desperately trying to shrink into the wallpaper, praying with every fiber of their being that the Moretti brothers wouldn't notice they were breathing.
