Chapter 8 - The Price of PrideSix months later.
The Massachusetts State Women’s Correctional Facility was a cold, dreary concrete complex located miles away from the glitz and glamour of Boston high society. Gray fog rolled over the razor-wire fences, and the distant sound of ocean waves crashed against the rocky shoreline.
Inside the visiting room, Camille Whitaker sat at a cold steel table, dressed in a loose-fitting, coarse orange prison jumpsuit.
Her once-perfect blond hair had grown out, showing dark, unkept roots. Her face was pale and hollow, her manicured nails long gone, replaced by raw, bitten skin. The diamonds, the silk dresses, and the fawning high-society friends had vanished like smoke in the wind.
A guard tapped his nightstick against the metal door. "Five minutes, Whitaker."
Camille looked up as the visitor entered the room.
It wasn't a lawyer. It wasn't a former friend.
It was Gabriel Moretti.
He looked immaculate in a tailored charcoal navy suit, a dark silk tie, and a polished leather coat. He sat down across from her, separated by the thick glass partition, and picked up the visitor’s telephone handset.
Camille picked up her phone with trembling, pale hands. Her voice came through the speaker, raspy and weak.
"Why are you here, Gabriel?" she asked, her voice devoid of the old fiery arrogance. "Did you come to laugh at me? To gloat?"
Gabriel looked at her calmly, his dark eyes showing neither anger nor satisfaction. Just a vast, cold distance.
"I came to deliver a message from the harbor authority," Gabriel said softly through the phone. "The final liquidation of your father’s estate was completed yesterday. Whitaker Shipping no longer exists. Pier 9 has been fully integrated into Moretti Logistics."
Camille let out a dry, bitter laugh, tears welling up in her dull blue eyes. "You won. You took everything. My home, my money, my father... my freedom. Are you happy now?"
"I didn't take anything from you, Camille," Gabriel replied steadily. "You gave it all away the moment you decided that other human beings were beneath your feet. You thought power meant the right to be cruel."
Camille slammed her hand against the glass, her voice cracking with sudden, desperate emotion. "I was going to be your wife! I was going to carry your name! I did what I thought a mafia boss's wife was supposed to do—I ruled with fear!"
Gabriel slowly shook his head, leaning slightly closer to the glass.
"That was your mistake," Gabriel whispered. "My father ruled with fear, and he died alone in a dark alley with a bullet in his back. I rule with respect. My men obey me because I protect them. My staff serves me because I honor them. You looked at this world and saw a playground for your arrogance. I looked at it and saw a responsibility."
Camille slumped back in her metal chair, sobbing quietly into her hands. The reality of her twenty-five-year sentence pressed down on her chest like a mountain of stone.
Gabriel set the phone back onto its cradle. He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket with smooth, effortless precision.
"Gabriel! Wait!" she cried through the glass, her muffled voice barely audible as she banged her fists against the frame. "Please! Don't leave me here!"
Gabriel didn't look back. He turned his heel and walked out of the visitation room, his steady footsteps echoing down the long, concrete corridor.
Outside the prison gates, the black SUV was waiting. Marco held the door open as Gabriel stepped inside into the warm, leather-scented interior.
"Where to, Boss?" Marco asked, closing the door and getting into the driver's seat.
May you like
Gabriel looked out the tinted window at the misty harbor, where massive cargo ships bearing the Moretti crest sailed smoothly into the deep water of Pier 9.
"Home, Marco," Gabriel said, leaning back into his seat and closing his eyes. "We have a business to run."
