Chapter 8 - The Final Ultimatum at the GateWhen my vehicle rolled through the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate just as the sun fully crested the horizon, I noticed a sleek black town car parked illegally right outside the front steps.
Two armed private security guards stood near the entrance, looking tense.
Marcus stepped out of the front passenger seat first, sweeping his hand over his concealed holster. “Hold up. We weren’t expecting any visitors.”
I stepped out of the car, adjusting my cuffs. “Who is inside?”
Before Marcus could answer, the massive oak front door of the mansion swung open.
Stepping out onto the marble porch wasn’t a federal agent, nor was it a cartel hitman.
It was Eleanor Moretti—my fiercely protective, sharp-tongued elder sister who lived in Switzerland and rarely involved herself in domestic family affairs unless the situation reached DEFCON 1.
She wore a tailored white Chanel suit, oversized sunglasses, and carried a thick leather briefcase.
“Vincent Moretti,” Eleanor called out sharply, marching down the steps toward me with clicking heels. “Are you out of your absolute mind?!”
I raised an eyebrow, stopping in my tracks. “Eleanor. What are you doing here? How did you even know about—?”
“Do you think news doesn’t travel fast in our family, you idiot?” she interrupted, pulling off her sunglasses and glaring at me with eyes that could cut glass. “My phone started blowing up at 3:00 AM with encrypted alerts from the municipal court system showing that your entire estate and corporate trust were nearly seized in a sophisticated internal fraud scheme involving your mother-in-law and a bunch of cartel thugs!”
“It’s handled,” I said calmly, walking past her toward the front doors. “The threat is neutralized. Mateo Garcia is finished, and Evelyn is locked in the East Wing.”
Eleanor grabbed my arm, stopping me dead in my tracks.
“Neutralized?” she hissed, her voice dropping to a furious whisper. “Vincent, you fool. You think Evelyn acted entirely on her own accord because of gambling debts? Do you think a woman as painfully ordinary as Evelyn could have possibly accessed the high-level cryptographic keys required to forge our family trust documents without an insider helping her?”
My body went completely rigid. A cold shiver crawled down my spine.
“What are you talking about?” I asked slowly.
Eleanor opened her leather briefcase, pulled out a certified dossier stamped with confidential watermarks, and shoved it against my chest.
“Read it,” she snapped.
I opened the folder. The first page was a financial audit connecting Evelyn’s bank accounts not to the Garcia syndicate, but to a Swiss offshore trust account registered under a familiar name.
My own uncle—Richard Moretti—whom I had banished from the family board of directors five years ago for attempting a hostile corporate takeover.
“Richard…” I whispered, the name tasting like ash in my mouth.
“He didn’t just use Evelyn as a pawn,” Eleanor said, her voice shaking with rage. “He financed her entire operation. He’s the one who supplied the neurotoxin through a corrupt pharmaceutical contact. He wanted Isabella out of the picture, your marriage destroyed, and your child declared illegitimate so he could step in as your legal guardian and seize control of the entire Moretti dynasty.”
The puzzle pieces clicked together with terrifying clarity. Evelyn wasn't just a greedy mother. She was a hired assassin in a family blood feud, manipulated by a bitter uncle who wanted my throne.
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And right now, Richard was waiting at the downtown municipal courthouse for the final probate hearing to ratify the fraudulent trust transfer.
Which meant the war wasn't over yet.
