Chapter 3 - The War for the EstateBy 1:30 AM, the grand stone fortress was on absolute, high-level lockdown.
Over forty armed operators in dark tactical gear patrolled the perimeter walls, while Dante sat behind the massive mahogany desk in his private executive study.
I sat in a plush velvet armchair near the stone fireplace, wearing a dark cashmere sweater and trousers provided by the estate staff, drinking hot tea while Dr. Aris Vance—Dante’s private physician—cleaned and bandaged the scraped palms of my hands.
Sitting across from Dante was his chief intelligence director, Marco, who displayed encrypted financial ledgers and wiretap transcripts across three large monitors.
"Vanessa is currently at the Ritz-Carlton penthouse downtown, Boss," Marco reported cleanly. "She's already celebrating with her father, Marcus Moretti, and their secondary legal team. They believe your car plummeted into the ravine and that your body hasn't been recovered yet."
A cold, dangerous smile touched the corners of Dante’s sharp lips.
"Let them celebrate, Marco," Dante ordered flatly. "Has the secondary probate petition been filed?"
"Vanessa’s attorneys are filing the emergency estate seizure order at eight o'clock tomorrow morning," Marco confirmed. "They intend to declare themselves the sole executors of the Moretti Trust."
Dante turned his head slowly, looking at me sitting by the fire.
"Cara," Dante spoke softly.
I set my teacup down, looking up into his storm-gray eyes. "Yes?"
"Tomorrow morning, Vanessa and her father are going to walk into the grand ballroom at the Plaza Hotel for the annual Maritime Board Council," Dante revealed. "They believe they are going to claim my empire."
He stood up from his leather chair, walking across the Persian rug until he stood directly before my seat, dropping onto one knee flat on the rug to bring his carved face level with mine.
He reached out, his hand gently covering mine over the bandage.
"Will you walk into that ballroom beside me, Cara Fields?" Dante asked, his deep baritone filled with an absolute, unshakeable trust. "And help me hand your father's killers their execution?"
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I looked into those storm-gray eyes—eyes that had watched me for six months, eyes that had protected me on a muddy hillside, and eyes that held the truth about my father's death.
"I won't just walk beside you, Dante," I answered, my hazel eyes burning with sudden, unshakeable steel. "I'll hold the pen."
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