Chapter 8 - Secrets of the Conti Family
The Conti family had once been a noble, aristocratic family in Sicily before moving their shipping business to New York. Isabella had been their youngest daughter, the golden child who was never supposed to be involved in syndicate affairs.
An hour later, Lorenzo stood in the opulent living room of Arthur Conti—Isabella's uncle and the administrator of the Conti family estate.
Arthur, a frail man in his sixties with expensive glasses and a groomed mustache, sat on a leather sofa, sipping tea. His hands trembled slightly as Lorenzo tossed a thick folder of financial documents onto the glass table before him.
"Explain this, Arthur," Lorenzo said coldly.
Arthur looked at the documents. They were wire transfer records showing millions of dollars moving from Marco Vane’s hidden offshore accounts into a shell company controlled by Arthur Conti, dated two weeks before the crash on the Verrazano Bridge.
"Lorenzo... I... I don't know what this is," Arthur stammered, pulling at his collar.
"Isabella left her personal inheritance—the Conti shipping line shares—to our child in her will," Lorenzo said, taking a step closer. "If she died without an heir, those shares reverted back to you. You sold her out to Marco for control of the docks."
Arthur's face went gray. "She was going to marry you! A mobster! She was going to drag the Conti name into the mud!"
"She loved me," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "And I loved her. You sold your own niece to monsters for money and pride."
Arthur scrambled off the couch, falling to his knees. "Lorenzo, please! I'm her uncle! Isabella wouldn't want you to kill me!"
Lorenzo looked down at the pathetic man with disgust. A year ago, he would have shot Arthur without a second thought. But now, holding the memory of Isabella and the future of Clara in his mind, he chose a different path.
"You're right," Lorenzo said softly. "Isabella wouldn't want your dirty blood on my hands. But you will pay."
Lorenzo looked at Paul. "Strip him of every asset. Every property, every share, every dollar. Leave him with nothing but the clothes on his back and deport him back to the poorest village in Sicily. Let him spend the rest of his life remembering what he gave away."
May you like
As Arthur was dragged away screaming, weeping for his lost fortune, Lorenzo stood alone in the hallway, looking up at a framed photograph of a young Isabella smiling on a sailboat.
"It's over, my love," Lorenzo whispered to the photograph. "They can never hurt us again."
