Chapter 11 - The Audit
Federal agents don't knock on Salvatore Marquetti’s front door; they arrive with a battering ram and an entourage of auditors. Three months after the O’Neill syndicate fell, Special Agent Vance Miller of the Organized Crime Task Force decided to test whether Salvatore’s newly minted philanthropic ventures were just an expensive laundering scheme.
I was reviewing budget proposals in the conservatory when the heavy oak doors banged open.
Miller stepped inside, his gray suit rumpled and his expression dripping with self-righteous triumph. “Tessa Vance, I presume? You’ve built an impressive corporate facade, but a mobster is still a mobster. Where is Marquetti?”
Before I could answer, Salvatore stepped out from the library archive hallway. He wasn't wearing a jacket; his sleeves were rolled up past his forearms, revealing the lean, corded muscle of a man who worked for his survival long before he ruled the city.
Salvatore didn't flinch. He didn't reach for a weapon. He simply raised his hands, his fingers slicing through the air with cold, mocking precision.
You’re standing in a registered 501(c)(3) non-profit, Agent Miller. If you brought a warrant, show it. If you brought opinions, take them back to the federal building.
Miller sneered. “We’re seizing every ledger, every hard drive, and every bank account associated with this foundation. You’re done, Marquetti.”
Salvatore didn't blink. He walked past Miller, stepped over to my desk, and pulled a sealed Manila envelope from the top drawer. He handed it directly to the agent.
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My legal counsel submitted a full preemptive audit to the Department of Justice yesterday morning, Salvatore signed slowly, his eyes locking onto Miller’s with a terrifying, unblinking intensity. Every dollar is clean. Every asset is accounted for. Try to seize a single chair in this building, Agent Miller, and my lawyers will sue you personally for constitutional harassment before dinner.
Miller pulled out the documents, his eyes scanning the court stamps and federal signatures. Slowly, the smug color drained from his face.
