Arthur chuckled, taking a slow sip of his champagne.
“Warrants?
On what grounds, dear brother?
Victoria Sterling’s deranged ramblings?
The police found no biological traces of me at Pier 42.
And as you can see, I arrived tonight as the accredited guest of the Romanian Ambassador.
Diplomatic courtesy affords me quite a bit of room to breathe.”
Arthur’s gaze slowly slid from Vincent to Emma.
His eyes sparkled with predatory calculation.
“And you must be Emma Carter,” Arthur purred, bowing slightly with exaggerated chivalry.
“The brave little waitress who brought the mighty House of Sterling to its knees.
Up close, I must say, you possess your father’s stubborn eyes.”
Emma felt a cold spike of rage pierce through her fear.
She stepped forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Vincent.
“Don’t you dare speak about my father.”
“Why not?”
Arthur asked softly, tilting his head.
“Has Vincent not told you the whole story?
Did he leave out the most delicious details of how the Moretti family built their foundation on your family’s ruins?”
“Arthur,” Vincent warned, his voice vibrating with lethal menace.
“Walk away.
Now.”
“You always were quick to hide the dirt beneath the rug, Vincent,” Arthur said, his smile sharpening like a razor.
“Did you tell her about the fire at the Carter warehouse on 35th Street?
Did you tell her who actually locked the safety valves that night?”
Emma’s breath hitched.
The fire that had initially destroyed her father’s fleet of trucks had always been ruled an accidental electrical fault—the very disaster that started his downward spiral.
“You’re lying,” Emma whispered, her knuckles clenching around her satin clutch.
“Am I?”
Arthur leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Ask your billionaire protector why his father’s personal seal was on the insurance denial documents.
Ask him why the Moretti foundation bought your father’s land for pennies on the dollar three days after he was buried.
Vincent likes to pretend he is a savior, Miss Carter.
But he is a Moretti through and through.
In our family, we don’t save people like you—we consume you.”
“That’s enough,” Vincent growled.
Vincent grabbed Arthur by the lapel of his tuxedo, violently pulling him forward.
The sound of fabric straining shocked the ballroom into dead silence.
Several security guards surged forward, but Arthur merely laughed into Vincent’s face.
Chapter 20 – Unraveling Truths
Vincent released Arthur with a shove that sent the elder brother stumbling back two paces.
“Get out,” Vincent commanded, his voice trembling with contained savagery.
“Before I forget that there are witnesses.”
Arthur straightened his jacket, adjusting his crimson pocket square with casual elegance.
He shot one last, mocking glance at Emma.
“The truth always surfaces, Miss Carter.
Sleep well tonight.”
With a mocking salute, Arthur turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, exiting toward the private VIP suites accompanied by the foreign diplomatic security.
The atmosphere in the ballroom was shattered.
Vincent grabbed Emma’s hand, his grip uncharacteristically tight, and led her out through the service exit toward the waiting armored motorcade.
Neither spoke a single word during the entire twenty-mile drive back to the estate through the blinding rainstorm.
When they arrived at the estate, Emma pulled her hand free the moment they stepped into the grand marble foyer.
“Emma, wait,” Vincent said, reaching out to stop her.
“Did your father buy my family’s land?”
Emma demanded, turning on him, her eyes ablaze with hurt and suspicion.
“Did your company profit off my father’s death?”
Vincent stood in the entryway, the water dripping from his overcoat onto the black Italian marble.
He looked at her, his face pale, unable to hide the bitter truth.
“Yes,” Vincent said softly.
The word hit Emma like a physical blow.
She staggered back a half-step, pressing a hand to her chest.
“How could you?
How could you sit there and pretend to be my benefactor, giving me jobs, giving me protection, when your entire life of luxury was built on the misery of families like mine?!”
“I didn’t know!”
Vincent roared, the sheer raw emotion shattering his stoic exterior for the first time.
“I was twenty-two years old, serving in the naval intelligence corps overseas when your father died!
My father ran this company like a medieval warlord, and Arthur was his willing executioner!
When I inherited Moretti Global, I spent years untangling the illegal shell companies and black-ops accounts my father and brother left behind!”
Vincent walked over to his massive mahogany desk, ripped open the bottom drawer with an electronic keycard, and pulled out a thick, faded ledger.
He slammed it onto the desk.
“This is my father’s private journal from 2014,” Vincent said, his chest heaving.
“Look at it, Emma.
Read it.
My father didn’t burn your warehouse to hurt your family.
