Chapter 6 - The Unwelcome ReunionThe grand foyer of the Mancini-Russo estate—usually a place of quiet, intimidating elegance—was currently operating as a chaotic war zone.
When Victor’s matte-black SUV slid to a halt in the circular driveway, he didn't wait for the driver to open the door. He shoved it outward, sprinting up the marble steps and pushing through the heavy double doors.
Inside, Chloe stood frozen near the grand staircase, looking pale and stricken. Beside her, fifteen-year-old Tommy sat in a wheelchair, looking bewildered and clutching a small gift-wrapped box.
Standing opposite them was a sharp-featured woman in an expensive mink coat—Aunt Beatrice—and standing beside her, flashing a federal badge, was Assistant U.S. Attorney Marcus Vance (no relation to the late enforcer, but equally dangerous).
“Look at this!” Aunt Beatrice crowed loudly, gesturing theatrically at the vaulted ceilings, the armed guards flanking the doors, and Chloe’s terrified expression. “I told you! The girl runs off, abandons her family, and shacks up with a notorious criminal syndicate boss in exchange for hush money and a luxury suite! It’s human trafficking disguised as domestic employment!”
“Ms. Bennett is of legal age, ma'am, and she is here entirely of her own free will,” Mrs. Gable said coldly, standing like an iron barrier between the intruders and the stairs.
“Shut your mouth, you old hag!” Beatrice snapped, pointing a manicured finger. “Marcus, read the warrant! This estate is operating as a safehouse for illicitly acquired funds, and my niece is being held under duress!”
“That’s enough,” a voice boomed through the foyer.
The temperature in the room dropped to absolute zero.
Victor stepped forward from the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space, his dark eyes locked onto Assistant U.S. Attorney Vance with a look of pure, unadulterated execution.
Vance swallowed hard, involuntarily taking a half-step backward. He had signed on to this vanity case thinking it was an easy ticket to a federal judgeship, but standing face-to-face with Victor Russo made him feel like he was standing on the edge of a volcano.
“Mr... Mr. Russo,” Vance stammered, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “We have a court-ordered warrant to inspect the financial records of this residence and interview Ms. Bennett regarding potential extortion—”
“You have a piece of paper signed by a compromised judge who takes donations from the Moretti family,” Victor interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register that vibrated through the marble floors. He stepped closer, towering over the prosecutor. “You stepped foot onto my private property without an armed escort. Do you know what happens to federal prosecutors who get lost in my woods, Mr. Vance?”
Vance’s face turned the color of skim milk. “This is obstruction of justice! I’ll call the FBI—!”
“Call whoever you want,” Victor said smoothly, pulling his encrypted phone from his pocket. “By the time they cross the county line, my legal team will have disbarred you for ethical misconduct, frozen your personal bank accounts, and exposed your offshore dealings with the Moretti syndicate to the Attorney General.”
Vance stared at him, terror flooding his eyes. He slowly lowered the warrant. “You’re bluffing.”
“Try me,” Victor whispered.
Before Vance could respond, the heavy iron gates outside groaned open again, and a convoy of three federal cars—bearing actual FBI badges and led by federal marshals—swarmed up the drive. But they weren't there to arrest Victor.
The lead marshal stepped out, walking briskly up the steps, and handed a thick manila folder directly to Victor.
“Mr. Russo,” the marshal nodded respectfully. “We executed the search warrant on the Moretti safehouses in Cicero an hour ago. We found the wire transfer receipts, the extortion logs, and a signed confession linking Assistant U.S. Attorney Vance to their payroll.”
Vance gasped, his knees buckling beneath him. “That’s a frame-up!”
“Take him away,” Victor ordered dismissively.
May you like
Two marshals immediately grabbed Vance by the arms, dragging the screaming, flailing prosecutor out the front doors and shoving him into the back of a cruiser.
Aunt Beatrice stood frozen in horror, her mink coat slipping off her shoulders as she realized her high-stakes payday had just evaporated into thin air. She looked at Victor, then at Chloe, and turned on her heel, scurrying out the doors like a rat fleeing a sinking ship.
