Chapter 4 - THE LAWYER'S BRIEFCASE
The air in Margaret’s bedroom grew suffocatingly thick.
Carmine was downstairs.
He had forty heavily armed men with him.
Vincent had sent half his own security detail away to prepare for the engagement party earlier that evening. We were completely outnumbered.
“Lock the doors,” Vincent ordered Joseph. “Keep the dinner guests in the dining room. Do not let Carmine’s men near them.”
“Yes, boss.” Joseph hurried out.
Vincent turned to me.
“Emily, take my mother to the panic room behind the library. Keep her safe.”
“No,” Margaret said.
Her voice was surprisingly firm.
She wiped her tears and stood up straight, smoothing the wrinkles in her pale-pink cardigan.
“Ma, it’s not safe,” Vincent argued.
“Carmine is a traditionalist,” Margaret said, her chin raised. “He will not spill blood in a house where the matriarch is serving guests. If I am in the room, he has to respect the laws of hospitality. It will buy you time.”
Vincent stared at his mother.
For the first time all night, I saw where the feared Mafia boss inherited his absolute spine of steel.
“I’m staying with her,” I said quietly.
Vincent looked at me. He saw my terror, but he also saw my determination. He gave a single, tight nod.
We walked down the grand staircase.
Carmine stood in the grand foyer.
He was sixty-five, impeccably dressed in a navy pinstripe suit, leaning on a silver-tipped cane. The jagged scar on his jaw made his polite smile look sinister.
Behind him stood eight massive enforcers.
And beside him stood a nervous, sweating man in a cheap brown suit, clutching a leather briefcase.
I recognized him. It was Arthur Penhaligon, the family’s estate lawyer.
“Vincent!” Carmine called out, opening his arms. “Forgive the intrusion. But when I heard your engagement was broken, I had to come offer my condolences.”
Vincent descended the stairs slowly, exuding absolute authority.
“You’re out of your territory, Carmine.”
Carmine smiled. “Actually, according to the documents my associate Arthur here has prepared, this house now belongs to your brother Michael.”
Michael, who had followed us down the stairs, froze on the bottom step.
“And since Michael is in debt to Boston for certain… gambling indiscretions,” Carmine continued smoothly, “he has agreed to sign the deed over to me to clear his ledger.”
Michael’s face went completely white. “I never agreed to that!”
Carmine ignored him. He looked at Arthur the lawyer.
“Show them the new will, Arthur.”
The sweaty lawyer fumbled with his briefcase. He placed it on the marble foyer table and popped the golden latches.
Margaret stepped forward.
“Carmine,” she said, her voice echoing in the quiet hall. “You will not conduct hostile business in my foyer. You will sit in the parlor, and you will accept a cup of coffee.”
Carmine’s eyes narrowed. But Mafia code was absolute. You did not disrespect the mother of a Don in her own home.
“Of course, Margaret. You are a gracious host.”
They moved into the parlor.
While the men sat, I went to the foyer table to collect the coffee cups.
Arthur the lawyer had left his briefcase sitting open on the marble console.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I glanced toward the parlor. The enforcers were watching the doors. Nobody was watching the maid.
I quickly wiped down the table, moving my cloth near the open briefcase.
Inside was a stack of legal documents.
But tucked beneath the fake will was a heavy, sealed envelope bearing the wax seal of Joseph Morelli—Vincent’s dead father.
It was labeled: TRUE TESTAMENT. TO BE OPENED ONLY IF MY WIFE IS THREATENED.
My breath caught.
Claudia and Michael hadn't found the real will in the safe. The lawyer had possessed it the entire time, keeping it hidden to blackmail the family later.
I quickly slipped the heavy envelope beneath my cleaning cloth and slid it into my deep apron pocket.
Just as I turned around, one of Carmine’s enforcers grabbed my arm.
“What are you doing?” the brute growled.
“Just cleaning, sir,” I whispered, keeping my eyes down.
He shoved me away. “Get the coffee.”
I hurried into the parlor and immediately walked to Vincent. I poured his coffee, leaning down as if to ask how he took it.
I slipped the heavy wax-sealed envelope onto his lap beneath the table.
Vincent didn't even flinch. He placed his hand over it smoothly.
Carmine smiled. “Now, let’s sign this house over and avoid a messy war.”
Vincent slowly picked up the envelope from his lap.
He broke the wax seal right in front of Carmine’s face.
“Let’s see what my father actually wanted,” Vincent said coldly.
Carmine’s confident smile faltered.
Vincent unfolded the heavy parchment. He read the first few lines, his eyes scanning the page rapidly.
Suddenly, Vincent went completely still.
He read it again.
He looked up, staring directly at Margaret.
“Ma,” Vincent whispered. “Did you know about this?”
Margaret lowered her eyes and quietly said, “Yes.”
Carmine frowned. “What does it say? Give it to me!”
Vincent stood up.
“It says,” Vincent announced, his voice ringing with absolute power, “that upon my father’s death, the house, the accounts, and the entire New York syndicate do not pass to me. They do not pass to Michael.”
Vincent turned toward me.
“They pass to the firstborn child of my father’s sworn blood brother.”
I stopped breathing.
May you like
Vincent looked directly into my eyes.
“They pass to Emily Parker.”
