Chapter 10 - The Mistress and the Mole
At seven o'clock that evening, the heavy iron doors of the underground holding cells beneath the Boston waterfront groaned open.
Julian Vance sat chained to a heavy steel chair in the center of the damp, concrete chamber, his tailored designer suit torn and reeking of fear.
Standing in the shadows beside him was Bianca Laurent—Julian’s high-society mistress and the chief financial officer of his fraudulent holding company.
Bianca was sobbing hysterically, her emerald evening gown ruined, her hands bound behind her back with heavy tactical zip-ties.
I walked into the chamber, flanked by Detective Marcus Vance and two armed federal marshals carrying thick evidence binders.
Julian looked up, his bloodshot eyes widening in raw, animal panic as he saw the cold, murderous serenity in my face.
“Matteo! Please! We are family!” Julian screamed, thrashing against his heavy chains.
“I was manipulated by the Castiglione cartel! They threatened to kill my mother if I didn't help them seize Damian’s shipping terminals!”
I did not speak; I walked over to the small wooden table and tossed the unsealed toxicological reports and wiretap transcripts into his lap.
“You paid Dr. Richard Sterling two hundred thousand dollars to terminate an experimental cancer trial for a seven-year-old boy, Julian,” I said, my voice terrifyingly calm.
“You sent an armed wet-work squad into a pediatric intensive care unit to execute my nephew while he was receiving my bone marrow.”
Bianca shrieked from the corner, pointing a trembling, manicured finger at Julian.
“It was all his idea, Mr. Vance! Julian told me that if the boy died of cancer, the eighty-million-dollar trust fund would automatically default to his corporate account!”
“She is lying! She helped me forge the probate certificates in Zurich!” Julian yelled back, his sanity completely disintegrating in the dim light.
Detective Marcus stepped forward, clicking a digital audio recorder on the table.
“Julian Vance and Bianca Laurent, your uncorrupted digital communications spanning seven years have been decrypted by the FBI Cyber Division,” Marcus announced.
“Every wire transfer, every murder contract, and the explosive telemetry from Damian Vance’s car bombing have been authenticated under federal grand jury subpoenas.”
Julian collapsed forward against his chains, letting out a low, guttural wail of absolute, irreversible ruin as the magnitude of his defeat crushed him.
I leaned down, looking directly into the cowardly eyes of the man who had tormented my family for nearly a decade.
“You spent seven years pretending to be an aristocrat, Julian,” I whispered into his ear.
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“Now you will spend the rest of your natural life in a windowless concrete cell, remembering that you traded your soul for a crown you were never born to wear.”
I turned my back on the traitors, walking toward the heavy iron exit as the federal marshals moved in to transport the prisoners to federal maximum security.
