Chapter 5 - The Tribunal’s TrapThe private hangar at the edge of the Belladonna estate had been converted into a makeshift tribunal hall. Twelve leather armchairs formed a semi-circle beneath the towering steel rafters, occupied by aging syndicate elders, international cartel bosses, and silent, suited fixers whose allegiance shifted to whoever held the most guns.
When Vincent and I walked through the double doors, every eye in the room locked onto us.
I wore a tailored black wool coat over a deep crimson dress—a subtle nod to the burgundy maid’s uniform I had discarded, but cut with the sharp, unyielding elegance of a woman who refused to be broken. Vincent walked beside me, his hand hovering protectively just above my elbow, radiating an aura of lethal authority that kept the assembled bosses from murmuring.
At the center of the semi-circle stood a man I had never seen before: tall, silver-haired, wearing an expensive Savile Row suit, with a cold, calculating smile playing on his lips.
“Vincent,” the man purred, spreading his arms wide. “It’s been a long time. I trust the engagement party went well?”
“Cut the pleasantries, Viktor,” Vincent growled, stopping ten paces away. “State your business or get off my property before my men clear this hangar with live ammunition.”
Viktor Rostov—head of the eastern European syndicate council—chuckled darkly. He turned his gaze toward me, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.
“Ah, the long-lost heiress. Isabella Teresa Moretti. Or so you claim,” Viktor said smoothly, stepping toward us. “My associates in the international tribunal received an anonymous dossier this morning containing very troubling documents.”
Viktor snapped his fingers. A junior assistant scurried forward, handing him a thick folder stamped with red wax seals.
“According to the syndicate registry from 1998, Elena Moretti did not merely flee a family feud,” Viktor announced to the assembled elders. “She signed a formal contract of abdication, renouncing all claims to Moretti assets in exchange for a clean break and a trust fund deposited into an offshore Swiss account. In short... she was legally disowned before the fire ever took place.”
A murmur rippled through the tribunal elders. Several of them exchanged meaningful glances.
Vincent didn't blink. “Fabricated documents. The tribunal recognizes only documents stamped with the patriarch’s private seal.”
“Which I have right here,” Viktor said smoothly, pulling a yellowed parchment from the folder and holding it up. “Complete with your grandfather’s signature and thumbprint in wet ink.”
I felt a cold chill run down my spine. The document looked authentic. The seal gleamed in the harsh hangar lights. For a second, doubt crept into my mind. What if my mother lied to me? What if we really were nobody?
Vincent sensed the shift in my posture. Without looking away from Viktor, he slid his hand down, his fingers intertwining firmly with mine, sending a jolt of steady, unshakable warmth through my skin.
“You’re a fool, Viktor,” Vincent said, his voice ringing with absolute disdain. “You forged the signature. But you made one fatal mistake.”
Viktor’s confident smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“My grandfather suffered a stroke in the winter of 1997,” Vincent stepped forward, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure ice. “His right thumb was crushed in a hunting accident three months before that document was supposedly signed. He never signed anything with his right thumb again—he used his left.”
Vincent pointed a finger directly at the document in Viktor’s hand.
“Look at the thumbprint on your forged paper, Viktor. It’s a right thumbprint. You forged a document from a dead man using the wrong hand.”
The hangar erupted into chaos. Several syndicate elders stood up, shouting angrily at Viktor, realizing they had been used as pawns in a cheap coup attempt.
Viktor’s face drained of color, his hands trembling as he stared down at the paper. “That’s… that’s a lie! This is a setup!”
“Marcus,” Vincent said calmly.
May you like
“Yes, Boss?”
“Throw him out of my hangar. And make sure he leaves his cars, his weapons, and his boots behind. It’s freezing outside.”
