Chapter 6 - The Exile of Victoria
The resolution of Victoria Moretti’s fate was not handled by the NYPD.
In Alessandro’s world, calling the police for a family betrayal was considered a sign of weakness that invited rival families to test your borders.
Two days after our confrontation in the library, a private charter jet took off from a private airfield in Westchester at four o'clock in the morning.
On board were Victoria Moretti and her fourteen-year-old son, Julian.
They were not heading to a prison cell. They were heading to a remote, fortified estate owned by the Moretti family high in the Swiss Alps—a place where the winter lasted nine months of the year, where internet access was restricted to a monitored satellite terminal, and where four armed guards would remain stationed at the gates for the rest of Victoria’s natural life.
She retained her trust fund income—fifty thousand dollars a year—and Julian’s education was fully funded through a private tutor network. But Victoria Moretti would never set foot in North America again. She would never wear her antique ruby jewelry. She would never step into a Manhattan penthouse, attend a charity gala, or speak to a member of the Moretti organization without a guard listening to every word.
As for Jean-Luc Dupont, the pastry chef... he simply vanished.
No body was found in the Hudson River. No police report was filed. But three days after Victoria’s flight departed, a new executive pastry chef was hired at Il Cielo, and the restaurant reopened under new management.
I sat in the morning room of the Long Island estate, watching Emma play on the lawn outside.
She was wearing a yellow raincoat and red rubber boots, jumping into water puddles with a golden retriever puppy Alessandro had bought for her three days ago. Her hair was trimmed, her skin healthy and pink, her cheeks filling out after a week of proper meals and rest.
Marco Rossi walked into the room, carrying a silver tray with a fresh cup of tea and a leather folder.
“The legal adoption papers are ready, Miss Clara,” Marco said, placing the folder on the table beside me. “Alessandro signed his portion this morning. Once you sign yours, Emma will officially be registered as Emma Vance Moretti—Alessandro’s legal ward and trust beneficiary.”
I looked down at the documents.
Emma Vance Moretti.
A six-year-old homeless child who had run barefoot through a Manhattan dining room to save a stranger had just been given an inheritance that rivaled the old aristocratic families of Europe.
“Does she know?” I asked gently.
“She knows she’s never going back to the subway,” Marco said, a rare, soft smile touching the corner of his rough mouth. “She asked me this morning if she could keep the puppy if she misbehaved. I told her the puppy belonged to her, no matter what.”
I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the adoption papers.
“Where is Alessandro?” I asked.
“In his office,” Marco replied. “He has a meeting with Marcus Delacroix at noon.”
I frowned. “Delacroix? Victoria’s former partner?”
“Delacroix tried to move on our Brooklyn piers yesterday while news of Victoria’s disappearance was still circulating,” Marco said, his tone turning cold. “Alessandro is going to explain to him why that was an expensive mistake.”
I stood up, wrapping my cashmere shawl around my shoulders. “I’m coming with him.”
Marco hesitated. “Miss Clara, Dr. Rossi said—”
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“Dr. Rossi said my heart is stable,” I interrupted him firmly. “And I am not spending another day sitting in this house while Alessandro decides who lives and who dies in my name.”
Marco looked at me for three long seconds, then bowed his head slightly. “The car is waiting in the courtyard.”
