Chapter 8 - The Evidence
The heavy thud of Elaine’s briefcase hitting the mahogany table sounded like a gavel falling in a federal courtroom.
“Inside this dossier,” Elaine said, her voice cutting through the thick, electrified silence of the dining room, “is a complete forensic accounting audit of every wire transfer, offshore shell corporation, and falsified signature executed by Vincent Moretti over the past thirty-six months.”
Gabriel slowly opened the binder.
His eyes scanned the first page—a certified bank wire confirmation from a Swiss account bearing Vincent’s personal notary seal and a forged signature facsimile of Beatrice Costello.
He didn't yell. He didn't slam his fists. He simply closed the binder, and the air temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
“Vincent,” Gabriel said softly.
Vincent was trembling now, his slicked-back hair damp with nervous sweat. “Gabriel... listen to me... it’s business... I was investing for the syndicate... expanding our— Clifford—tell them—”
“Shut up,” one of the veteran capos—a massive man with a broken nose named Tony ‘The Anvil’—growled from across the table, resting his heavy hands on the wood. “You stole from the Old Man’s wife, Vincent. You stole from the family.”
“And that’s not all,” Elaine added, pulling out a second set of documents and sliding them toward Gabriel. “We also have certified repair records, police report drafts, and a forensic digital trail proving that Mr. Moretti attempted to assassinate Miss Mercer two weeks ago by severing the brake line on her personal vehicle after she witnessed the initial forgery at Il Canto.”
Vincent took a step back, hitting the edge of the mahogany sideboard. “She’s lying! The girl is a nobody! A waitress!”
“A waitress,” Gabriel said, standing up slowly from his chair. He was a massive man, easily six-foot-four, broad-shouldered and terrifying in his stillness. He walked around the table until he stood directly in front of Vincent.
“A waitress had more integrity, more courage, and more loyalty to this family than my own chief financial adviser,” Gabriel said quietly.
Before Vincent could blink, Gabriel’s right fist lashed out with blinding, explosive speed.
The punch landed squarely on Vincent’s jaw with a sickening crack. Vincent’s legs buckled, and he collapsed hard onto the Persian rug, clutching his face as blood trickled from his split lip.
Gabriel looked down at him with utter disgust.
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“Tony, take him down to the shipping yard warehouse on Dock 4,” Gabriel commanded without looking back. “Lock him in the cold storage office until the federal marshals pick him up in the morning. And make sure he doesn't leave any ‘accidents’ behind.”
Two of the armed security guards moved in instantly, hauling Vincent up by his arms and dragging him out of the room, his muffled cries echoing down the marble hallway.
