Chapter 4 - The Man at My Family Table
Vincent Moretti arrived at my mansion at seven the next evening.
He had no idea I knew.
That was the advantage betrayal sometimes gave you.
The traitor believed trust still existed.
“Dominic.”
Vincent removed his coat and handed it to the staff.
He was sixty-two, silver-haired, elegant, and always perfectly dressed.
He had known me since I was six.
When my father died, Vincent stood beside me at the cemetery.
When my mother died, he helped Lucia arrange the funeral.
He had taught me contracts, negotiation, and one sentence I remembered now with bitter clarity:
Never accuse a man until you already know the answer.
So I didn’t accuse him.
I poured two drinks.
“How long have you known Mercer?”
His hand paused.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
“Daniel Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“Years. Why?”
“Business.”
“What business?”
He smiled.
“You didn’t invite me here to discuss real estate.”
“No.”
I placed the flash drive on the table.
The color left his face.
That was all the confession I needed.
“Sit down, Vincent.”
“Dominic—”
“Sit.”
He did.
I played the recording.
Nobody spoke until it ended.
Vincent stared at the floor.
“Let me explain.”
“Fourteen months.”
“What?”
“That’s how long Emma has worked here.”
He looked confused.
I leaned forward.
“Did you ever speak to her?”
“No.”
“Did you know her mother had cancer?”
“No.”
“Did you know her brother lost both legs?”
“No.”
“Did you know she worked three jobs?”
“No.”
“Yet you gave Kolov her schedule.”
Vincent’s eyes closed.
“I didn’t know they would hurt her.”
That sentence disgusted me more than a denial would have.
“You gave violent men the location of an innocent woman.”
“They said they wanted to scare you.”
“And you believed them?”
He looked away.
“Why?”
Silence.
“Why, Vincent?”
His voice finally cracked.
“Your father.”
I froze.
“He left something behind.”
Vincent explained.
My father had invested secretly in property decades earlier.
Land now worth hundreds of millions.
The ownership documents had become buried through corporate restructures.
Mercer discovered them.
But transferring the properties required signatures from the Castellano estate.
My signature.
Vincent had spent years quietly manipulating documents, hoping I would eventually sign without noticing.
I hadn’t.
So Mercer turned to Kolov.
Pressure became intimidation.
Intimidation became violence.
Emma had been selected because she appeared insignificant.
Someone I supposedly wouldn’t care about.
That had been their fatal misunderstanding.
“You sold my family for property?”
Vincent shook his head.
“I was in debt.”
“How much?”
“Eight million.”
Lucia entered behind me.
Vincent looked devastated when he saw her.
“Lucia.”
She had heard everything.
“You came to my mother’s funeral.”
“Lucia—”
“You held my hand.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“And all this time?”
Vincent could not answer.
I could have destroyed him that night.
The man I had once been would have.
Instead, I placed a phone on the table.
“What is this?”
“Your opportunity.”
“For what?”
“To choose.”
He looked at me.
“You call federal investigators. You tell them everything. Mercer. Kolov. Vale. The properties. The payments.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then Marco sends them the recording anyway.”
Vincent stared at the phone for a long time.
Then he picked it up.
That decision began the collapse.
Within seventy-two hours, federal investigators had evidence from Vincent, financial records from the drive, surveillance footage from Emma’s attack, and proof linking Dmitri to the fire.
Vale tried to flee.
He was arrested at JFK.
Mercer attempted to destroy documents.
Investigators were already waiting at his office.
Anton Volkov disappeared.
Dmitri was arrested.
Kolov remained.
And desperate men are dangerous men.
At three fourteen one morning, my security alarm sounded.
Marco entered my bedroom with a weapon drawn.
“Boss. We have movement outside.”
“Where?”
“East wall.”
Then another guard shouted through the radio.
“Vehicle approaching gate!”
I was downstairs within seconds.
The vehicle smashed through the outer barrier.
Security surrounded it.
The driver was alone.
Wounded.
Anton Volkov.
The snake tattoo.
He stumbled from the vehicle with both hands raised.
“I need Castellano!”
Marco pushed him against the hood.
“You’ve got nerve.”
“Wait,” I said.
Anton looked at me.
Fear filled his face.
Not fear of me.
Fear of someone else.
“Kolov knows,” he gasped.
“Knows what?”
“About the recording.”
I stepped closer.
“He knows Emma has it.”
My blood turned cold.
“Where is Kolov?”
Anton shook his head.
“You don’t understand. He doesn’t care about Mercer anymore. Doesn’t care about money.”
“Where?”
Anton looked toward the mansion.
Then he said the words I had been dreading.
“He’s going after the girl.”
I turned toward Marco.
“Emma’s room.”
Marco radioed upstairs.
No response.
Again.
Nothing.
We ran.
Her bedroom door was open.
The bed was empty.
On the pillow lay her phone.
Beside it was the torn Castellano crest from her old uniform.
And underneath it—
a handwritten note.
May you like
COME ALONE IF YOU WANT HER ALIVE.
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