Chapter 8 - The Cornered Rat
Arthur Vance’s accounting office was nestled between a laundromat and a bakery on a nondescript avenue in Astoria, Queens. It was the kind of strip-mall enterprise that smelled of burned filter coffee, dust, and cheap toner—a place designed to stay invisible.
Luca insisted on going personally with Marcus, but I refused to stay behind at the townhouse like a helpless trophy awaiting news of my fate. My freedom was on the line. My mother, whom I had called in an emotional hurry, had arrived to watch Leo for two hours under the watchful eye of armed private security.
When Luca’s black Maybach pulled up to the curb in Astoria, the afternoon sky was bruised with slate-gray storm clouds.
"Stay in the car with the driver," Luca instructed, turning to me in the backseat. His hand reached out, hovering gently before tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was warm, steady, carrying an electric current of pleading adoration. "Please, Bella. Let Marcus and me handle this. If it gets ugly, I don't want you near it."
"Arthur Vance signed my name to a felony, Luca," I replied, meeting his eyes without flinching. "I am walking into that room. I want him to look the woman he tried to destroy right in the eye."
Luca stared at me for three long seconds. In the past, he would have argued, asserting his executive dominance to shield me from the world. But the woman who had survived seven months on her own was no longer someone he could command. He recognized that shift. A flicker of genuine admiration softened his jaw.
"Right behind me," he said simply, stepping out into the rain.
The bell above the glass door chimed merrily as we entered the dim reception area. Behind a laminate desk sat a balding man in his late fifties with thick bifocals, a stained cardigan, and hands that began shaking the instant he registered Luca’s six-foot-two frame and Marcus’s imposing silhouette.
"We’re... we’re closed for the afternoon," Arthur Vance stammered, frantically sliding a stack of tax forms over a ledger.
Marcus stepped forward, placing his leather-bound credentials on the desk with a heavy clatter. "Arthur Vance? My name is Marcus Vance. Former Assistant District Attorney for the Southern District of New York. And this is Luca Moretti."
Arthur’s face drained of color so fast I thought he might faint. His eyes darted to the back door of the office.
"Don't even think about it," Marcus said smoothly. "I have two plainclothes operatives covering the alley. Take a seat, Arthur."
The notary sank heavily into his rolling chair, his chest heaving. "I... I don't know what this is about. I run a clean practice—"
I stepped around Luca’s broad shoulder, walking directly up to the desk. I placed my open New York driver's license right in front of him.
"Look at this license, Mr. Vance," I commanded, my voice ice-cold. "Look at my face. Have you ever seen me before in your life?"
Arthur looked down at the ID, then slowly looked up at me. His Adam’s apple bobbed violently. "N-no, ma’am."
"Then explain to me," I leaned over his desk, slamming the printout of the Grand Cayman wire transfer right beside my license, "why your official notary seal and signature attest that on October 14th at 2:15 PM, Isabella Vance-Ross personally appeared before you to authorize the transfer of five million dollars out of Moretti Global?"
Arthur began to hyperventilate, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his glistening forehead. "I... I was told it was standard corporate restructuring! She had the passport! She had all the documentation!"
"Who had the documentation?" Luca’s voice cracked through the room like thunder.
The CEO stepped forward, leaning both hands on the front of the desk, invading the man’s personal space until Arthur pressed himself flat against the back of his chair. Luca didn't shout. He didn't raise a fist. But the lethal, aristocratic menace radiating from him was far more terrifying than physical violence.
"Give me a name, Arthur," Luca whispered. "Give me the name right now, or Marcus calls the postal inspectors and the FBI. You’ll be in a federal holding cell by dinner time, and I will personally bankroll every civil lawsuit imaginable until your children are paying off your debts."
"Helena Sinclair!" Arthur sobbed, breaking completely. "It was Helena! She paid me twenty-five thousand in cash! She brought a girl with her—a girl with blonde hair who looked vaguely like the passport photo! I didn't verify the thumbprint! I just stamped the damn papers!"
Marcus instantly pulled out an audio recorder, clicking it on. "State that again for the record, Mr. Vance. Date, time, amount, and the exact instructions given to you by Helena Sinclair."
As the terrified notary began spilling every single detail of the corporate conspiracy onto Marcus’s recording, Luca slowly stepped back.
He looked at me. In the dreary light of that sleazy Queens accounting office, the weight that had crushed our chests for twenty-four hours began to lift. But as Luca reached for my trembling hand and I finally let my fingers wrap around his, my phone chimed in my coat pocket with an incoming notification.
It was an alert from the security system at our Manhattan townhouse.
Front Gate Access Code Overridden. Main Foyer Door Opened.
May you like
My heart stopped.
"Luca," I gasped, showing him the flashing red screen. "Someone just breached the townhouse. Leo is alone with my mother."
