Chapter 8 - Shadows of the Syndicate
Back at the Westchester estate, the private security perimeter had been doubled.
Marcus’s desperate attempt to retaliate—hiring a low-level street fixer to tail Clara’s car—had lasted exactly twelve minutes before Salvatore’s intelligence network intercepted the operative.
Clara sat in the sprawling sunroom overlooking the gardens, sipping chamomile tea, when Salvatore walked in, sliding a heavy manila folder across the glass table.
"Your ex-husband tried to play a dangerous game," Salvatore said casually, unbuttoning his cuffs as he sat opposite her.
Clara opened the folder. Inside were photographs of the street fixer being hauled into a secure Vanguard holding facility, alongside a signed confession detailing Marcus’s pathetic attempt at harassment.
"Is he going to hurt us?" Clara asked calmly.
Salvatore let out a low, dark laugh, leaning forward. "Clara, the man couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag. My men dropped him off at the New Jersey state line with a bus ticket to Nebraska and a stern reminder about the life expectancy of fools who cross a Moretti."
Clara closed the folder, a soft smile playing on her lips. "And Marcus?"
"Marcus is entirely finished," Salvatore said, his amber eyes softening as he reached across the table to take her hand. "His law license is revoked, his bank accounts are frozen under federal investigation for tax evasion, and he’s currently packing his apartment into cardboard boxes."
Salvatore gently squeezed her fingers. "It’s over, Bellissima. The ghosts are gone."
Clara looked out the glass window at the sunlit gardens. For thirty-two years, she had lived her life bracing for the next insult, the next criticism, the next reminder that she wasn't enough.
May you like
Now, sitting in the heart of an empire built by a man who worshipped the ground she walked on, she realized she didn't have to brace for anything ever again.
---
