Grace turned the heavy brass latch, the click echoing like a gunshot in the sterile quiet of Suite 704. Her breath came in frantic, shallow rasps as I sat straight up in the hospital bed, pulling the cardiac bypass wire I had spent four painstaking days secretly recalibrating. The heart monitor continued its steady, slow beep, mocking the chaos in the room. / Chapter 12 / 20

Chapter 12 - The Iron Crown

By sunrise, the financial capital of the world had a new sovereign.

Grace Miller stood at the podium inside the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel, wearing a sharp, tailored ivory suit that contrasted sharply with the sea of black-suited mob bosses, corrupt senators, and Wall Street billionaires surrounding her.

"Dominic Moretti passed away in his sleep last night due to severe complications from his crash," Grace announced, her tone laced with flawless, somber grace. A single tear hovered at the edge of her eyelid—a performance even better than Veronica's. "Under his final, verified wishes, the entirety of Moretti Holdings has been restructured under the Miller Conglomerate."

The press flashed their cameras endlessly. The underworld bosses murmured in shock, but none dared voice an objection; behind Grace stood twenty elite mercenaries armed with automatic rifles, wearing the crest of the old Miller syndicate.

She stepped into Dominic's former office at the top of Moretti Tower an hour later. She walked behind the massive mahogany desk, running her manicured nails over the dark wood, savoring the bitter cold victory she had spent ten years planning.

She sat down in my leather armchair and leaned back, closing her eyes. "Father," she whispered to the empty room. "It's done."

When she opened her eyes, her smile instantly died.

Sitting dead center on her desk was an antique, heavy gold signet ring—the exact ring Dominic Moretti wore on his right hand, covered in fresh, glistening human blood.