Chapter 5 - The Shredded Trust
Preston’s face twisted from panic into furious, mask-off rage. He lunged forward, his hand raised to strike her across the face the way he had done a thousand times before.
He didn't even make it halfway.
Enzo moved with terrifying speed. He vaulted over the corner of the mahogany desk, grabbed Preston by the throat, and slammed him against the heavy oak bookshelves with a force that sent a shower of dust and falling volumes crashing to the floor.
Preston choked, his hands clawing desperately at Enzo’s wrists as his feet dangled inches off the carpet.
“Touch her,” Enzo whispered, his face inches from Preston’s terrified eyes, “and I will feed you to the fish in Lake Michigan piece by piece before breakfast.”
“Enzo... please... I can’t... breathe...” Preston wheezed.
Harper watched without flinching. For the first time in her life, the shadow of her father had been completely erased, replaced by the pathetic, shivering reality of a small, cowardly man.
Enzo loosened his grip just enough for Preston to gasp in air, then slammed him back against the shelf one more time for good measure before tossing him onto the floor like a sack of garbage.
Preston scrambled backward, coughing violently, clutching his throat as he glared up at them with pure venom. “You think you’ve won? You think a mob marriage protects her? The trust fund is tied to corporate dissolution clauses! If Harper doesn't sign the transfer papers by midnight tonight, the entire estate goes into receivership, and every federal agency in the country will trace those offshore accounts straight back to your syndicate, DeLuca!”
Enzo didn't flinch. He calmly straightened his suit jacket, walked back around the desk, and picked up a thick manila folder that Marcus had dropped off earlier that morning.
He opened it and tossed several printed pages onto the floor beside Preston.
Preston’s eyes dropped to the papers.
The color drained from his face for the second time that morning.
It wasn't a blank trust transfer form. It was a complete, unassailable forensic audit of Preston’s hedge fund, detailing every single illegal transaction, every forged signature, and every shell company he had operated for the past decade—complete with the digital signatures of the federal judges he had bribed.
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“Federal receivership?” Enzo asked, a cold, dangerous smile touching his lips. “Don't worry about your estate, Preston. The FBI already has copies of these files. They’re scheduled to raid your downtown office at noon.”
Preston stared at the papers, his entire world crumbling into dust around him. He realized, with sickening finality, that he had walked right into a trap from which there was no escape.
