Chapter 83 - The Other Branch
"What forgotten branch?" Elena’s voice cut through the damp interrogation room like a whip. "Jorge had no siblings. His parents died before we met. We buried him alone!"
Hector Vargas leaned back into his wheelchair, a ghastly, toothless grin stretching across his cracked lips. "Jorge was an only child, yes. But his father, Gabriel, was not. Gabriel had an elder brother who stayed in Mexico when the family scattered. An elder brother who had a son. A son who grew up watching the Moretti family parade through Manhattan in Italian silks while his own children worked the sugar cane fields of Tamaulipas."
The old man tapped the glass with his yellowed fingernail. "His name is Santiago Castellanos. He is Jorge’s first cousin. And he is currently thirty-five thousand feet in the air, flying toward JFK on a private charter with forty international civil attorneys and a warrant of federal attachment signed by the International Maritime Tribunal."
Dante didn't flinch. He didn't shout. The dangerous, calculated don who had dismantled Victor Romano and crushed Lawrence Thorne simply stepped back from the glass, his eyes scanning the yellowed charter.
"Let’s see the paperwork, Hector," Dante said, his tone deceptively smooth.
June Park stepped up beside him, wearing a sharp charcoal suit, pulling an ultra-high-resolution scanner from her briefcase. She laid her tablet against the glass, capturing every millimeter of the 1954 parchment.
"It’s an authentic paper stock from the era," June muttered under her breath, analyzing the digital spectral density on her screen. "The watermarks are consistent with the New York Secretary of State filings from 1954. If this signature is validated by forensic graphologists, it creates an immediate cloud on the title of every piece of real estate the foundation owns. The courts will freeze all accounts automatically."
"Not just the foundation," Hector mocked, his laughter echoing off the concrete walls. "The mansion on 74th Street. The trust funds for the little artist. The bank accounts you gave to Jorge’s widow. It was all purchased with Castellanos capital! You are living in a house built with stolen blood, Dante Moretti!"
"That is enough," Dante commanded. He signaled to the federal marshals. "Secure the prisoner. Keep him in isolation. Nobody enters this cell without a signed order from the federal district judge."
As they emerged into the humid Texas dawn, the sky was bruised with purplish storm clouds. Elena stopped beside the Suburban, her breathing shallow, her eyes locked onto the distant horizon of the Mexican border.
"Dante," she whispered, turning to him. "Did your father do this? Tell me the truth. Look into my eyes and tell me if Enzo Moretti was a thief."
Dante looked at her, his jaw clenching until the muscles knotted like cords beneath his skin. "My father was many things, Elena. He was ruthless. He was paranoid. He lived by the gun and died by the rules of the underworld. But he was obsessively meticulous with his ledgers. When he was dying in the hospital, he made me swear that every debt of honor had been paid. If he robbed Jorge’s grandfather, he took that secret to the grave."
"And what if it’s real?" Elena pressed, tears finally slipping over her lashes. "What if Lily and I have spent seven years building our lives on a lie? What if Jorge died not as a hero, but as a man trying to claim an empire?"
"Jorge died an honest man," Dante said, his hands coming up to cradle her face, his thumb gently wiping away her tear. "Lily drew what happened on Pier 7. She drew Victor cutting the cable because Jorge refused to let guns and heroin through the gate. Jorge didn't want an empire, Elena. He wanted an honest day's wage and a safe home for his baby girl."
He looked back toward the detention center, his eyes darkening with lethal determination. "Santiago Castellanos has every right to claim what is legally his if the documents are genuine. But if he thinks he can use Jorge’s memory to wage a hostile takeover of my family, he will find out that Dante Moretti has never lost a war on New York soil."
May you like
His phone rang. It was Teresa back at the 74th Street mansion.
"Mr. Moretti," Teresa gasped, her voice trembling in terror. "There are twelve men in suits standing at the front gates. They have court orders. They brought moving vans. And... they brought a young man who looks exactly like Jorge."
