Chapter 2 - The Audit of the Lost VowsBy 2:00 A.M., the top-floor executive command suite at The Marchetti Tower overlooking Lake Shore Drive was operating under an impenetrable, non-negotiable tactical lockdown.
Outside the private elevator banks, twenty armed Vance Security operators guarded every corridor. Inside, in a high-backed velvet armchair, sat Senior Corporate Prosecutor Bridget Colton, alongside my chief forensic accountant.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, watching the blizzard sweep across the black waters of Lake Michigan, a glass of untouched bourbon resting on the granite counter beside me.
Bridget Colton opened three heavy, red-sealed leather binders, sliding digital ledgers and wiretap transcripts flat onto the table toward me:
"Nico," Bridget spoke crisp and fast, her sharp blue eyes holding surgical professional fury. "The forensic audit into Ava Marchetti, her hidden offshore accounts, and the events leading up to your divorce three months ago is complete."
I turned around slowly, my dark gray eyes burning with an apocalyptic, predatory fire. "Explain it."
Bridget tapped the digital screens:
THE FABRICATED EMBEZZLEMENT FRAME-UP: High-definition digital logs proving Ava Marchetti paid $2 million to a private detective three months ago to forge evidence claiming Elena Brooks was leaking Marchetti shipping routes to rival syndicates.
THE THREE-HUNDRED-MILLION-DOLLAR TRUST: Proof that under your late father’s grand trust charter, if Nico Marchetti remained married to Elena Brooks upon his fortieth birthday, fifty-one percent controlling common stock equity in Marchetti Logistics transferred permanently to Donna Elena Marchetti.
THE PREMEDITATED MURDER ATTEMPT: Intercepted wiretaps capturing Ava communicating three hours ago with her corrupt attorney, verifying she pushed Elena down the stairs to trigger an immediate miscarriage and ensure Elena could never claim her spousal trust equity.
My breath stopped in my chest.
My knuckles turned stark white against the granite counter.
Three months ago, I had sat across from Elena in that cold courthouse conference room, telling her that our six years of marriage had been a lie—believing I was protecting her from a fake syndicate war manufactured by my own sister. I had broken the heart of the only woman I had ever loved to keep her safe from bullet fire, unaware that the real snake was sitting at my own family table.
DING.
My private satellite phone vibrated in my jacket pocket. It was a direct line from Dr. Karen Whitmore at St. Matthew:
Mr. Marchetti: Elena has regained full consciousness. The fetal heartbeat is strong and normal. She is asking to see you.
I didn't answer in words. I grabbed my heavy black cashmere coat, looking over at Marcus Vance.
"Marcus," I commanded ice-cold.
May you like
"Yes, Don Marchetti?"
"Prepare the primary convoy. Tomorrow morning at the Marchetti Assembly... we tear Ava's world to the ground."
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