Chapter 7 - The Final Truth
Arthur Vance sat at the heavy mahogany dining table, his hands shaking as he poured himself a glass of water from a crystal pitcher. Across from him sat Adriano Falcone, arms crossed, staring down the former cop with cold, unblinking intensity. Rebecca stood behind Adriano, her hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, her heart pounding in her ears.
Vance popped open the battered leather briefcase and pulled out an old, encrypted digital flash drive, sliding it across the polished wood.
"That's it," Vance whispered, staring down at his own trembling hands. "The dashcam from a logging truck that was parked two hundred yards down the road from where Thomas’s car was run off the road."
Adriano picked up the flash drive, walked over to the wall-mounted media console, and plugged it in.
A grainy, nighttime video flickered to life on the massive screen.
The audio was muffled by wind, but the picture was painfully clear. Thomas’s small sedan was boxed in by two black SUVs. A man stepped out of the lead vehicle—not a stranger, but one of Vincent Rossi’s top enforcers. They didn't just push Thomas’s car off the cliff; they dragged him out, beat him in the dirt while he begged for his life, and then staged the wreckage.
And then, in the background of the video, a woman’s voice called out from one of the SUV windows.
Rebecca stopped breathing.
The woman stepped out into the headlights of the SUV.
Silver dress. Diamond bracelets. Impeccable blonde hair catching the harsh light.
Genevieve Falcone.
Adriano stared at the screen, his entire body going completely rigid. The color drained from his face, leaving the scar along his jaw stark white against his skin.
"Genevieve," Adriano breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "She... she was part of the faction from the very beginning. Long before we were married."
"She wasn't just part of it, Mr. Falcone," Vance croaked, looking up with tear-filled eyes. "She was Rossi’s primary financial conduit in Providence. When Thomas discovered the money laundering accounts, he didn't just stumble on a random warehouse—he stumbled on her personal offshore accounts. She ordered the hit. Rossi just carried it out."
Rebecca stared at the screen, the horrific puzzle pieces of her life finally snapping together with brutal clarity. The woman who had laughed as she shoved her into the pool. The woman who had treated her like garbage for eighteen months under her own roof.
She hadn't just been a cruel socialite. She had been the architect of Rebecca’s widowhood.
Adriano turned slowly away from the screen. His eyes were no longer those of a retired crime boss or a gentle protector. They burned with a terrifying, righteous fury—the absolute wrath of a man whose world had been built on a lie.
"She’s in federal protective custody," Rebecca said, her voice shaking with sudden rage. "After you threw her out, the feds picked her up on minor tax evasion charges to use her as a witness against the remaining syndicates."
Adriano walked over to the heavy oak desk by the window, picked up his encrypted satellite phone, and pressed speed dial.
"Marcus," Adriano said, his voice like grinding ice.
"Boss?"
"Find out which federal safehouse Genevieve is being held in."
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"Boss, she's under federal guard. Accessing her right now—"
"I didn't ask to access her," Adriano interrupted, a dark, dangerous smile touching his lips. "I asked you to clear the path. My wife and I have a score to settle with the past."
