Chapter 5 - VOICES OF THE DEFRAUDED
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By three o'clock in the morning, the mansion’s formal library looked like a wartime command post.
Marco, the Moretti family’s chief forensic accountant for twenty-five years, had spread dozens of spreadsheets across the banquet table.
Files were stacked in neat, terrifying towers of evidence that told the story of an invisible slaughter.
Luca stood at the head of the table, sipping black coffee, listening as Marco broke down the numbers.
“It wasn't just Teresa, boss,” Marco said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with trembling fingers.
“Old Joseph, who drove your father for thirty-five years, had his account wiped clean four months ago.”
“He’s eighty-one, living in a basement apartment in Bridgeport, eating canned beans because he couldn't afford insulin.”
“Maria, who washed the linens for forty years, lost her home to foreclosure last November.”
“She’s currently sleeping on a cot in her granddaughter’s living room.”
“And Antonio, the master gardener who planted the rose gardens for your mother?”
“He passed away two months ago in a charity hospice because his supplemental health insurance lapsed when the pension disappeared.”
Luca closed his eyes, his breathing heavy and measured as each name hit him like a physical blow.
“Seventeen families,” Luca whispered, the fury burning behind his closed eyelids.
“Seventeen loyal souls who trusted my father’s word.”
“And all that money flowed straight into Bellini Logistics and Vance Holdings,” Marco confirmed, pointing at the transaction records.
“Vanessa was signing the transfer authorizations personally using a forged power of attorney from your father's estate.”
I stepped into the room carrying a silver tray with fresh coffee and water for the men.
“Mr. Moretti?” I spoke up tentatively, my heart fluttering with nervous energy.
Luca looked up, his expression softening slightly.
“What is it, Claire?”
“While Matteo was moving Mrs. Moretti... Vanessa... to the basement, I checked her dressing room as you asked.”
I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out a small black leather notebook and two high-end burner phones.
“I found these taped behind the full-length mirror in her walk-in closet.”
“There are dates, bank routing numbers, and a list of flight reservations booked for Zurich next Tuesday.”
Marco snatched the notebook immediately, flipping through the handwritten entries with wide, frantic eyes.
“Mother of God,” Marco breathed, looking up at Luca.
“She wasn’t just embezzling the pensions, Luca.”
“She was preparing to liquidate your family’s entire commercial shipping accounts next week.”
“She and Salvatore were planning to bleed you completely dry and flee to Switzerland before the quarterly audit.”
Luca walked slowly toward the panoramic window overlooking the sprawling estate grounds.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a cold, merciless November mist that rolled off Lake Michigan.
“They didn’t just want to steal,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet certainty.
“They wanted to erase the Moretti name from Chicago entirely.”
“They killed my father, starved my family’s oldest protectors, and laughed in my dining room.”
He turned back toward the table, slamming his palm down against the mahogany wood with enough force to rattle the coffee cups.
“Matteo!”
The head enforcer stepped forward, bowing his head.
“Send vehicles to Bridgeport, to South Shore, and to every address on Marco’s list.”
“I want all seventeen families brought to this estate by sunrise.”
“If they are sick, bring private ambulances.”
“If they are hungry, feed them.”
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“Before the sun reaches noon, every single debt owed to our people will be paid in full.”
“And Salvatore Bellini will watch every dollar crumble between his greedy fingers.”
