Chapter 6 - Inside the Gates of Rumson
The Costello estate sat on a jagged outcrop of rock overlooking the grey, choppy waters of the Shrewsbury River. A towering wrought-iron gate, flanked by stone pillars and private security guards with earpieces, swung open as our sleek black sedan approached.
The main house was a sprawling brick-and-limestone mansion that looked like a European fortress transplanted onto the New Jersey shore. Floodlights illuminated the manicured lawns, and a dozen luxury cars—Mercedes, Porsches, and high-end SUVs—were parked along the circular cobblestone driveway.
Elaine sat beside me in the back seat, adjusting her blazer. She carried a heavy leather briefcase stuffed with certified bank statements, forensic accounting reports, the original 1998 will, and sworn affidavits.
“Remember,” Elaine whispered as the car glided to a halt in front of the massive oak double doors. “Stay calm, translate every sign with absolute fidelity, and let me handle the legal onslaught. Vincent won't know what hit him until the federal indictments are unsealed.”
The heavy front doors swung open before we even stepped out.
Standing in the grand foyer—a cavernous space dominated by a sweeping double staircase, crystal chandeliers, and polished marble floors—was Gabriel Costello himself.
He looked older in the warm indoor light, his dark hair touched with silver at the temples, his gray eyes shadowed with exhaustion and cold fury. Behind him stood four armed security men in dark suits, their hands resting loosely near their jackets.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, Miss Mercer,” Gabriel said, his deep, resonant voice echoing off the marble walls. “And you’ve got a lot of nerve bringing a lawyer into my home uninvited.”
“Mr. Costello,” Elaine said, stepping out of the car with calm, unshakeable poise, her briefcase clutched in her hand. “I didn't come here uninvited. I came because your mother requested my presence—and because your financial adviser is currently committing federal wire fraud and grand larceny under your roof.”
Vincent Moretti stepped out from the formal dining room archway, holding a glass of scotch. His face was a mask of cold arrogance, though a faint, pale scar still lingered on his left cheek where Beatrice had slapped him two weeks ago.
“Look who crawled out from under the dumpster,” Vincent sneer-laughed. “Gabriel, are you really going to let this ambulance-chasing lawyer and a broke waitress disrupt Thanksgiving dinner over the rambling delusions of an old woman?”
“Shut up, Vincent,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping an octave—a lethal, quiet rumble that made even Vincent snap his mouth shut.
May you like
Gabriel turned his gaze back to me.
“My mother is in the dining room,” Gabriel said. “She refused to touch her food until you arrived. Let’s see what she has to say.”
