Chapter 8 - The Execution
The chandeliers didn't flicker, but the sound that erupted from the massive overhead speakers caused every glass in the room to freeze.
It was the voice of Dr. Marchetti, recorded three days before his fatal 'car crash.'
*"...The toxicology screen on Isabella Duca is conclusive. Thallium sulfate. Administered continuously over an eight-week window. The compound traces back to batch lot 409 from Vance Chemical Enterprises..."*
A sharp gasp ripped through the crowd.
Vivien’s face drained of every ounce of color. The emerald dress that made her look like royalty suddenly looked like a shroud.
"Lorenzo... what is this?" She whispered, reaching for my arm, her fingers trembling. "Turn that off! It’s an outrage! Someone hacked the system!"
"Silence," I said into the microphone. I didn't shout. The sheer authority in my voice struck her like an open-handed slap.
On the massive projector screens that usually displayed charity slideshows, high-resolution banking records flickered into view. Wire transfers totaling twelve million dollars from Carmine Moretti’s shell company into the offshore accounts of Julian Vance. Followed by telephoto photographs of Vivien Vance meeting Julian Moretti in diners, in parking garages, exchanging encrypted drives.
And then, the sound of Vivien’s own voice, recorded through the cracked door of Isabella’s bedroom three days ago:
*"...Children wander. Gates get left open. Cameras fail. Terrible things happen..."*
The ballroom was paralyzed. Senators, judges, and mafia capos stood frozen in absolute horror. In our world, war had rules. You fought men with guns. You didn't poison matriarchs with slow toxins, and you didn't threaten three-year-old children in their beds.
Julian Moretti spun on his heel, motioning to his three enforcers to draw their weapons and head for the exits.
"Close the doors," I commanded into the microphone.
The heavy brass doors of the Grand Ballroom slammed shut with the force of a thunderclap.
Stepping out from behind the velvet curtains around the perimeter were twenty men in tailored black suits, fully armed, led by Rocco. Before Julian’s men could even clear leather, cold steel was pressed against the bases of their skulls.
"Sit down, Julian," Rocco rumbled, shoving Julian hard into a gilded chair. "The show isn't over."
On the stage, Vivien was hyperventilating. Her manicured hands clawed at her throat. "Lorenzo, please! It was my father! Julian forced me! They were going to kill my family! I loved you—I truly loved you!"
"You watched my mother die," I said, stepping closer to her, towering over her trembling frame. "You held her cup while she coughed up blood. You whispered comfort in her ear while you calculated the value of the port terminals."
"No! Lorenzo, please, have mercy!" She dropped to her knees, clutching the hem of my trousers, her tears ruining the expensive mascara, turning her into a grotesque caricature of the pristine woman she had pretended to be.
The ballroom doors opened again.
Walking down the center aisle, beneath the brilliant crystal lights, was Elena.
She wore an elegant, midnight-blue evening gown. Her chin was held high. Holding her hand was little Mia, wearing her favorite red skirt and patent leather shoes. The crowd parted for them like the Red Sea, murmuring in stunned awe.
Elena walked all the way to the foot of the stage. Mia looked up at Vivien, who was groveling on the floorboards, and then looked at me.
"Uncle Lorenzo," Mia said, her clear, innocent voice carrying through the deadly silence of the room. "The bad lady is crying."
"Yes, Mia," I replied, looking down at Vivien with nothing but cold, empty contempt. "The bad lady is crying because she realized she is all out of lies."
I looked back up at the room. Two city detectives and three federal prosecutors—men who had eaten dinners paid for by the Duca foundation for fifteen years—stepped forward from the audience.
"Take her," I said. "Attempted murder. First-degree murder of Isabella Duca. Extortion. Conspiracy. The flash drive with every laboratory report, financial ledger, and bank routing number is already on the District Attorney's desk."
The detectives climbed the stage. The cold steel of handcuffs clicked around Vivien Vance’s wrists. She screamed, thrashing like a wild animal, her silk dress tearing as she was dragged down the steps, past the very people she had tried to rule.
"Julian Moretti," I said, turning my gaze to the trembling nephew in the front row.
Julian swallowed hard, his skin glistening with terror. "Lorenzo... we can talk. Carmine didn't know about the poison... it was all Vivien's father..."
"Tell your uncle Carmine that the war he started twenty years ago ends tonight," I said calmly. "By tomorrow morning, his accounts in Switzerland will be frozen, his shipping lines in Newark will belong to me, and if I ever see a Moretti step foot in Manhattan again, you won't get handcuffs. You’ll get six feet of concrete."
I signaled Rocco. "Throw him out."
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Rocco and his men dragged Julian and his enforcers through the side exits like bags of trash.
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