Marco slowly turned his head to look at Serena’s secret husband. “The Whitmore Hospitality empire wasn’t founded on hotels, was it, Richard?”
Lily watched Richard Hale’s throat bob violently. “Mr. DeLuca, that is ancient history. Whatever our grandfathers did in the seventies has nothing to do with modern commercial developments—”
“Your grandfather was Thomas Hale,” Marco stated coldly. “The city comptroller who greenlit the waterfront seizures in 1976. The man whose signature secured your family’s real estate fortune.” Marco stood up. He was six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, and commanded the room with effortless, lethal gravity. “The Whitmore name was your mother’s maiden name. You created Whitmore Hospitality three years ago to hide the Hale family connection. And you sent your own wife into my house to dig up the evidence before it destroyed you.”
Serena suddenly broke down, dropping to her knees on the Persian rug. “Marco, please! Listen to me! Richard forced me into this! He told me our family would go bankrupt if those archives ever saw the light of day. He promised me that once we took the Brooklyn deed, we would bulldoze the property, demolish the foundation, and you and I could actually be happy—”
“Do not say my name with that mouth,” Marco said, not even glancing down at her. His gaze remained pinned on Richard.
Serena turned desperately toward Dominic. “Dominic! Tell him! You promised me you would handle Marco! You said he trusted you completely with the corporate trust!”
Dominic looked like a condemned man on the gallows. “Serena, shut your mouth!”
“You told me he was too blind to notice!” Serena screamed, her mask completely shattered, tears running through her heavy eyeliner. “You said he was so obsessed with expanding into Manhattan that he would sign whatever operational transfer you put in front of him!”
Marco walked slowly around the mahogany table. Every step was deliberate, unhurried, terrifying. He stopped in front of Dominic. Dominic was thirty-eight, younger, softer, dressed in three-thousand-dollar suits paid for by the family’s blood and sweat.
“You forged our mother’s name,” Marco said quietly.
“Marco… I needed twenty million,” Dominic choked out, sweat dripping down his temples. “The casino developments in Atlantic City… they went bad. Richard offered to clear my private markers if I helped Whitmore acquire the Court Street parcel. I thought—I thought we could just relocate the original kitchen! Nobody goes down to Court Street anymore anyway!”
“Our mother does,” Marco whispered. “Every Tuesday.”
Marco reached out, gripped Dominic’s expensive silk tie, and pulled his brother forward until their faces were inches apart.
“You let this woman ban Mom from the dining room she built. You stood by while she tossed our father’s recipes into the garbage. And you tried to sell the ground that protects this family from the very wolves Antonio died fighting.”
“Marco… I’m your brother…” Dominic wept.
Marco shoved Dominic backward. Dominic stumbled, crashing over his chair and sprawling onto the floor, clutching his chest.
Marco turned toward the kitchen doors. “Frank.”
The lead head of security stepped forward. “Yes, boss?”
“Take Mr. Hale and my brother down to the lower cellar of this estate. Take their phones, their watches, and their passports. No calls. No lawyers. Not until I have inspected the concrete on Court Street myself.”
“No! You can’t do this!” Richard Hale shouted, struggling as two guards clamped iron grips onto his arms. “I have a board meeting tomorrow morning! The press will know!”
“The press will know what I tell them,” Marco replied without emotion.
As the guards dragged Richard and Dominic out through the side corridor, Serena remained on the floor, shaking violently. She looked up at Marco, her hands clasped together in desperate supplication. “Marco… my love… what about me? What about the wedding?”
Marco la regarda avec un dégoût pur et pur.
« Le mariage est annulé », dit Marco. « Et si vous êtes encore à moins de trente miles de New York au lever du soleil, je veillerai à ce que l’acte de mariage de Richard et vos déclarations fiscales offshore soient livrés au district sud de New York avec mes compliments. »
Serena se releva d’un bond, serrant sa pochette de designer, et s’enfuit dans le couloir principal sans se retourner.
La salle à manger retomba dans un silence lourd et stupéfait.
Maria DeLuca laissa échapper un long souffle rauque, ses genoux fléchissant légèrement. Lily s’avança aussitôt, passant un bras rassurant autour de la taille de la vieille femme.
« Je vous ai, Madame DeLuca », dit doucement Lily. « Appuie-toi sur moi. »
