Chapter 8 - THE ARREST OF THE ROMANOS
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Isabella Romano’s scream of disbelief shattered the morning quiet of the drawing room.
“This is a joke!” she shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at Judge DeLuca.
“You can’t transfer a mafia empire to a florist’s daughter!”
“My father will have this entire house burned to ash by noon!”
Judge DeLuca didn't even blink.
He simply gestured toward the two federal prosecutors standing beside the window.
Special Agent Vance, a sharp-featured woman in a navy blazer, stepped forward holding a thick manila folder.
“Your father won't be burning anything, Miss Romano,” Agent Vance said smoothly.
“At five-thirty this morning, thirty FBI tactical units executed simultaneous raids on Romano Development headquarters, the Drake Hotel penthouse, and your father’s lake house in Lake Geneva.”
Isabella’s mouth fell open, her face turning the color of chalk.
“What?”
“We have had wiretaps on your brother’s phones for six months,” Agent Vance continued, opening the folder.
“Last night, your brother called you at two in the morning to confirm the hit team was entering the Moretti cellar.”
“That phone call gave us the final piece of probable cause for federal conspiracy to commit murder, interstate racketeering, and extortion.”
Two uniformed federal marshals walked through the double doors, holding heavy steel handcuffs.
Isabella backed away toward the fireplace, clutching her fur coat tightly around herself.
“Gabriel! Do something!” she cried, tears of pure terror finally breaking through her vanity.
“Call your lawyers! Call the mayor!”
Gabriel didn't even look at her.
He stood motionless between the two agents, his head hung low, staring at the Persian rug beneath his feet.
He was a man who had gambled his entire life’s legacy on a promise of power and a pair of seductive eyes, and he had lost everything in a single sunrise.
“Gabriel?” Isabella sobbed, her voice cracking as the marshals grabbed her wrists.
“Don't touch me! I’m a Romano!”
The cold steel clicked around her wrists with a sharp, unforgiving snap.
“Isabella Romano,” the marshal recited mechanically, “you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder and violations of the RICO Act.”
They dragged her toward the drawing room doors.
She kicked and thrashed, her designer heels scraping across the polished hardwood floor, cursing Gabriel, the judge, and me with every breath she had left.
Her screaming echoed down the grand corridor until the heavy front doors slammed shut, cutting her off from our world forever.
The drawing room fell silent again, save for the crackle of the birch logs in the fireplace.
Gabriel slowly raised his head, looking at me with eyes that were hollowed out by defeat.
“Claire,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“We can talk about this.”
“We can go into my study and work this out between husband and wife.”
“Husband and wife?” I asked, a bitter, humorless smile touching my lips.
“Where was my husband when he pulled his hand away from mine at the dinner table?”
“Where was my husband when Isabella laughed in my face while you watched?”
“Where was my husband when armed men were shooting at his eighty-four-year-old grandmother in the basement?”
Gabriel took a step toward me, but the federal agents immediately blocked his path.
“I didn't know they were going to hurt Nonna!” Gabriel pleaded, genuine desperation bleeding into his tone.
“Salvatore Romano swore to me that it was just a financial transfer!”
“They lied to me, Claire! They used me to get to the estate!”
“And you let them use you because you were arrogant, greedy, and unfaithful,” Antonella said from her chair.
The old woman looked at her grandson without a single drop of pity in her dark eyes.
“Vittorio always said that a fool thinks with his pride, but a Don thinks with his blood.”
“You betrayed your blood, Gabriel.”
“And now the blood has cast you out.”
Judge DeLuca closed the thick leather folder on the desk and signed the final page with a gold fountain pen.
“Gabriel Moretti,” the judge pronounced solemnly.
“You are formally stripped of all executive authority within the Moretti Trust.”
“Your access to the corporate accounts is terminated.”
“Your personal vehicles, your penthouse on Michigan Avenue, and your shares in the Calumet shipping terminals are now under the legal guardianship of Claire Moretti.”
Gabriel stared at the signed document, his chest heaving, his hands trembling at his sides.
Thirty-five years of supreme power, respect, and mafia royalty had vanished into thin air before the morning coffee had even grown cold.
“You can’t do this to me,” Gabriel whispered, his voice cracking like dry glass.
“I am a Moretti.”
“The name belongs to the house, Gabriel,” I said, stepping right up to him.
May you like
“And the house belongs to me.”
“Now take your coat, walk out those gates, and never show your face to me or your grandmother again.”
