Chapter 3 - THE NOTARY'S VISITATIONTrue to his word, twenty minutes later, the heavy oak doors of the study swung open. A nervous-looking man in a charcoal suit clutching a thick leather briefcase entered the room. It was Marcus Vance, a disbarred attorney who made a living executing legally dubious document transfers for the Moretti family's shadow enterprises.
"Ah, Marcus," Adrian said, standing up and straightening his tie with an air of absolute triumph. "Right on time. My wife is ready to sign."
I sat in the high-backed velvet armchair by the marble fireplace, keeping my shoulders slumped and my gaze cast downward. Behind me, half-hidden in the shadows of the expansive library, stood Lorenzo, nursing a glass of neat bourbon, watching every move like a hawk perched above a slaughterhouse.
Marcus placed a stack of heavy legal papers onto the mahogany desk. "Good evening, Mr. Moretti. Mrs. Moretti. If you'll just turn to page twelve, initial the indemnity clause, and sign on the designated line at the bottom of the power of attorney transfer for Vanguard Logistics..."
Adrian stepped forward, handing me a heavy gold fountain pen. His hand was slightly sweaty, betraying his inner anxiety despite his cocky facade.
"Go on, Sophia," Adrian prompted, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "Just sign your name. It'll all be over soon. You won't have to worry about managing anything ever again."
I took the pen. The metal felt cold against my fingers.
I looked up at Adrian, letting a single, well-timed tear slip down my cheek. "You promise you'll take care of me, Adrian? You promise you won't leave me?"
"Always, sweetheart," he lied smoothly, his eyes fixed greedily on the document. "Sign."
I lowered the pen to the paper. The tip hovered a millimeter above the dotted line.
Then, I stopped.
"Is something wrong, my dear?" a voice purred from the dark corner of the room.
Lorenzo stepped out from the shadows, his footsteps making no sound on the Persian rug. He walked slowly toward the desk, each step sending a ripple of palpable terror through both Adrian and the notary.
"Un-Uncle Lorenzo," Adrian stammered, his confident veneer cracking. "This... this is just a private family matter. A routine asset consolidation."
"Is it?" Lorenzo tilted his head, reaching out to pluck the document from the desk. He scanned the pages with eyes that missed nothing. "Odd. Because it looks remarkably like a forced corporate stripping executed under the influence of unprescribed neuro-suppressants administered by Dr. Kessler."
Marcus, the notary, turned completely pale, his knees visibly knocking together. "Mr. Moretti, I—I was told she consented—"
"You were told to keep your mouth shut and sign what my nephew paid you to sign," Lorenzo interrupted, his voice dropping into a register so chilling that the room temperature seemed to plummet ten degrees. "Marcus. Pack your briefcase. Leave your stamp on the desk. And if you are ever seen within city limits again, I will feed you to the stray dogs behind the slaughterhouse."
Marcus didn't wait to be told twice. He grabbed his empty leather case, tripped over his own feet, and bolted out the study doors, slamming them behind him.
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Adrian’s face drained of all color. "Uncle... what is the meaning of this? She’s my wife! She's incompetent—"
"She is a Moretti by marriage," Lorenzo cut him off, slamming the contract down onto the desk with a force that made the crystal decanters rattle. "And you, Adrian, are a pathetic, ungrateful parasite who just signed your own death warrant."
