I have a foundation to run, a home for my brother, and…”
She paused, her cheeks warming slightly.
“And you.”
Vincent reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, velvet-lined mahogany box.
He opened it, revealing not a diamond ring, but an antique bronze key stamped with the Moretti seal.
“What is this?”
Emma asked softly.
“It is the master key to the Moretti private archives in Florence, Italy,” Vincent explained.
“My grandfather collected Renaissance manuscripts, art, and historical records that have remained locked away from the world for seventy years.
I want the Carter Foundation to catalog them, preserve them, and open them to the public.”
He looked at her, his expression carrying a vulnerability she had never seen in him before.
“I’m leaving for Florence next week to oversee the transfer.
And I want you to come with me, Emma.
Not as an employee.
Not as someone under my protection.
But as my partner.”
Emma’s breath caught in her throat.
She looked at the key, then up at the man who had torn down an empire’s shadows just to keep her safe.
“Yes,” she whispered, her smile luminous.
“I’ll go with you.”
Chapter 31 – The Serpent’s Echo
The grand gala celebrating the merger of the Carter Foundation and the newly restructured Moretti Cultural Trust was held at the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art.
The event was magnificent.
Flashbulbs went off continuously along the red carpet as business leaders, politicians, and socialites arrived, eager to pay homage to the triumphant billionaire and the extraordinary young woman at his side.
Inside the grand exhibition hall, Emma looked breathtaking in an emerald-green silk evening gown, her hair swept up in an elegant chignon.
Liam, dressed in a sharp little tuxedo, was happily chatting with museum curators near a massive modern sculpture, flanked at all times by two discreet bodyguards.
Vincent stood by Emma’s side, holding a glass of sparkling water, greeting foreign dignitaries with his signature poise, his arm never leaving the small of Emma’s back.
“You look stunning,” Vincent whispered in her ear as the French ambassador walked away.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr.
Moretti,” Emma smiled playfully, clinking her glass against his.
“Though I think Liam is enjoying the attention more than both of us combined.”
“He has the Moretti charisma,” Vincent chuckled.
Suddenly, Dominic appeared at Vincent’s side, leaning in close.
His face was devoid of color, his jaw tight.
“Boss.
You need to see this.
Right now.
In the private security suite.”
Vincent’s smile vanished instantly.
He exchanged a quick, alarmed glance with Emma.
“What happened?”
“It’s about Arthur,” Dominic whispered grimly.
Vincent didn’t hesitate.
“Emma, stay here with Liam.”
“No,” Emma insisted, taking his arm.
“Whatever it is, we face it together.”
Leaving Liam under the heavy guard of four elite operatives in the VIP lounge, Vincent and Emma followed Dominic briskly through the service corridors to the museum’s underground security control room.
The screens in the room displayed news channels, encrypted federal feeds, and satellite links.
On the primary center monitor was a live news broadcast from the federal courthouse in downtown Chicago.
Outside the courthouse, police tape fluttered violently in the wind, dozens of emergency vehicles flashing red and blue against the night sky.
“What am I looking at, Dominic?”
Vincent demanded.
“Arthur’s federal transport was ambushed twenty minutes ago on the interstate,” Dominic said, his voice trembling slightly.
“A military-grade chemical payload was launched at the armored convoy.
All federal marshals were killed instantly.”
Emma gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
“Arthur escaped?!”
“No,” Dominic said, shaking his head slowly, pointing to the monitor.
“Arthur didn’t escape.
When the Hazmat team cut open the transport door…
Arthur was dead.
Strangled inside his cell.”
Vincent fixa l’écran, abasourdi.
« Qui pourrait bien pénétrer dans un système de transport fédéral de niveau 4 juste pour assassiner Arthur ? »
« Ne le tuez pas, patron », dit Dominic en appuyant sur une touche de la console.
« C’était une exécution. »
Et ils ont laissé quelque chose sur la paroi du fourgon blindé.
Écrit avec le sang d’Arthur.
L’écran a affiché une photographie de scène de crime en haute définition prise par la police.
Sur la paroi intérieure en acier du fourgon de transport, un symbole unique et terrifiant était peint, dégoulinant sur le sol : une vipère enroulée autour d’une ancre – un insigne que Vincent n’avait pas vu depuis plus de vingt-cinq ans.
Le visage de Vincent devint complètement, totalement blanc.
Le verre qu’il tenait à la main se brisa, des éclats lui lacérant la peau, des gouttes cramoisies tombant sur le sol en linoléum.
« Vincent… ? »
Emma murmura, terrifiée, en voyant l’horreur brute et paralysante dans ses yeux.
«Quel est ce symbole ?»
