Chapter 2 - The Wheels of Deception
The heavy oak doors of the ballroom slammed open again, but this time it wasn't a mafia boss entering; it was four private security guards in full tactical gear, led by Marcus Vance Jr.—the son of the disgraced security chief who had once tried to burn down Dominic Romano’s estate in Long Island.
“Mrs. Voss! We secured the perimeter!” Marcus Jr. yelled, his hand resting on the holster of his sidearm as he rushed into the room. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Dante Moretti standing casually beside the birthday cake, and Celeste sobbing uncontrollably against the edge of the dessert table.
“Marcus, get them out of here!” Celeste shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Dante and the twin girls. “Arrest him! Call the district attorney! Do whatever it takes!”
Marcus Jr. flicked his eyes toward Dante, a flicker of genuine fear crossing his youthful, arrogant face. The Moretti syndicate controlled the entire shipping docks of New Jersey and half the financial district in Manhattan. You didn't just arrest a Moretti capo in his own city unless you wanted your body found floating in the East River by morning.
“Mr. Moretti,” Marcus said cautiously, keeping his hand away from his weapon. “You’re trespassing on private property under a federal corporate protective injunction. If you don't leave right now, I’ll be forced to enforce physical removal protocols.”
Dante didn't even look at Marcus. He kept his dark, piercing eyes locked on Celeste.
“Your father taught you well, Marcus,” Dante said lazily, stepping past Celeste as if she were made of glass. He walked right up to Ivy and Esme’s wheelchairs, bending down on one knee so he was eye-level with the twins.
He ignored the tension, ignored the security guards raising their submachine guns, and gently placed the two wrapped boxes onto the girls' laps.
“Open them,” Dante instructed softly. “Your father wrapped these exact boxes four years ago before he went to meet me at the docks. He told me, ‘If I don't make it back, give them to my girls on their eleventh birthday, because by then, Celeste’s lies will have started to crumble.’”
Ivy’s hands shook as she touched the silver ribbon on the smaller box. Beside her, Esme reached out with trembling fingers and tore the wrapping paper off the larger one.
Inside Ivy’s box sat an old, heavy mechanical pocket watch—the exact one their father used to carry in his vest pocket when he played with them in the garden. She pressed the release button. The gold casing popped open, revealing a tiny micro SD card hidden beneath the clock face instead of gears.
Inside Esme’s box lay a leather-bound journal filled with their father’s handwriting, alongside a pair of lightweight, custom-fitted titanium leg braces that looked nothing like the heavy medical apparatuses their mother’s doctors had forced them to wear for years.
Esme stared at the titanium braces, her breath catching.
“What… what are these?” Esme whispered, running her fingers over the smooth, high-tech carbon-fiber joints.
“Those aren't medical braces, sweetheart,” Dante said, his voice dropping to a low, fierce register. “Those are dynamic kinetic stabilizers. Your legs were never paralyzed, Esme. Your muscles only atrophied because Celeste’s pediatric neurologist injected you both with low-dose muscle relaxers every night in your milk to keep you compliant, so she could claim federal disability tax write-offs for your medical care while siphoning millions into her shell accounts.”
The ballroom went dead silent.
Even Marcus Jr. lowered his weapon slightly, his jaw dropping in sheer disbelief.
Celeste screamed—a primal, animalistic sound of pure terror and rage. She lunged forward, grabbing a heavy crystal champagne flute from a nearby tray and hurling it directly at Dante’s head.
Dante didn't even flinch. He caught the glass mid-air with one hand, his fingers crushing the crystal stem into glittering powder that rained down onto the marble floor.
“You’re a monster, Celeste,” Dante said, standing up slowly and brushing the glass dust from his cuff. He turned his back on her, looking down at Ivy with eyes full of a strange, fierce tenderness. “Arthur was my brother in blood and oath. And a Moretti never breaks an oath.”
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He tipped his head slightly toward the double doors.
“The car is waiting outside. If you want to walk out of this house on your own two feet for the first time in your lives, girls… bring the journal. We’re going for a ride.”
