Chapter 9 - The Rossi Mirage
While Marcus wandered the streets of Queens searching for a room to rent, Isabella Rossi was discovering that the Vance family’s reach extended far beyond the Hudson River.
She had fled to an upscale rental in Boca Raton, hoping to ride out her pregnancy in peace, convinced that the four hundred thousand dollars she had stashed away in her mother’s Italian savings account would protect her. But the forensic accountants hired by Vance Capital were relentless.
Every wire transfer, every luxury shopping spree in Paris, every hotel suite Marcus had booked for her using company funds had been cataloged into a three-hundred-page civil forfeiture claim.
On a bright Tuesday afternoon, two federal marshals knocked on the door of her Florida bungalow. Isabella answered in a silk robe, her hand instinctively shielding her swollen stomach.
""Isabella Rossi?"" the lead marshal asked.
""Yes. What is this?""
""We are serving a writ of attachment issued by the Southern District of New York. All personal property purchased with funds originating from Thorne Meridian Account #4409 must be surrendered immediately.""
Within two hours, movers carried out her designer wardrobe, her Hermès bags, her fine jewelry, and the very sports car parked in her driveway. Even the luxury nursery furniture she had ordered on Marcus’s corporate card was tagged for auction.
""You can't do this!"" Isabella screamed from the front lawn, neighbors peeking through their blinds. ""I am having a baby! Emily Vance is a monster!""
A young woman in a gray business suit approached her, holding a certified envelope. It was a representative from the Vance Family Foundation.
""Miss Rossi,"" the representative said neutrally. ""Mrs. Vance has not forgotten the child. A private account has been opened at Baptist Health Hospital to cover all prenatal and delivery expenses in full. Furthermore, a modest two-bedroom townhouse in Orlando has been leased under a trust in your baby’s name, along with a monthly living stipend of four thousand dollars, administered strictly by an independent social trustee.""
Isabella stared at the envelope. ""Four thousand dollars? That barely covers my hair salon!""
May you like
""That is what normal mothers live on, Miss Rossi,"" the woman replied coolly. ""If you contest this arrangement, the foundation withdraws all support, and the court will proceed with full recovery of the four hundred thousand euros currently frozen in Genoa. The choice is entirely yours.""
Isabella fell back against the doorway, gripping the envelope. The fantasy of private jets, penthouse galas, and high-society prestige was gone. She was twenty-six years old, alone, and entirely dependent on the quiet charity of the very woman she had tried to destroy on a Manhattan stage.
