Chapter 8 - The Inheritance of Crows
By dawn, the mansion on the hill looked like a tomb.
The police cruisers had come and gone, taking statements, photographing the shattered glass in the foyer, and filing emergency warrants for Michael’s immediate arrest on charges of attempted domestic murder and aggravated assault. But Michael wasn't in a jail cell yet.
He sat tied to a wooden chair in the damp, subterranean shipping warehouse down by the Hudson River docks, staring up in total, paralyzing terror at Dante Moretti.
“Please,” Michael choked out, his tuxedo ruined, his face covered in dried blood and sweat. “Please, Dante... let’s be reasonable. I have contacts in Zurich—I can give you the offshore passwords—!”
Dante stood across from him, cleaning his fingernails with a small, silver pocket knife. He didn't look up.
“I don't need your offshore passwords, Michael,” Dante said calmly. “I already downloaded them at 3:00 AM using your primary laptop while you were screaming in the back of my SUV.”
Michael slumped forward, the last shred of his defiance evaporating into the cold warehouse air. “What... what are you going to do with me?”
Dante finally stopped cleaning his nails, snapping the silver blade shut with a sharp click. He looked down at Michael with eyes as cold as deep-sea ice.
“You’re going to sign over every remaining asset, every piece of real estate, and every stock certificate to Victoria,” Dante instructed quietly. “And then, you’re going to take a very long, very permanent vacation to a private facility in South America where men like you spend the rest of their days reflecting on their mistakes.”
May you like
Michael opened his mouth to protest, but the heavy iron bolt on the warehouse door slid open behind him, and the sound of approaching footsteps told him he had run out of time.
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