“Don’t sign it yet,” the little girl said. “You need to hear what the dead lady said first.”

Charles Bellamy looked at Vincent, then at the armed enforcers blocking the doors, and finally at Isabella, whose desperate, wide-eyed glare warned him not to say a single word.

The attorney’s professional facade completely dissolved. His shoulders slumped forward, and a wet, nervous laugh escaped his lips.

“You think you’re so righteous, Vincent,” Charles whispered, his voice cracking as he leaned against the mahogany table for support. “You built your shiny legitimate empire on top of a mountain of old Moretti blood and extortion money. You thought you could just walk away into the sunlight and play the benevolent corporate philanthropist.”

Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. “Get to the point, Charles. Where is my wife?”

“She isn't dead,” Charles said, casting a sideways glance at Isabella. “At least... she wasn't dead when the arrangement was made.”

Grace gasped softly, pulling little Emily closer into her arms, burying the child's face against her shoulder so she wouldn't see the dark ugliness unfolding in the room.

“Explain,” Vincent commanded, a muscle ticking violently in his jaw.

“Three years ago, Sofia stumbled onto documents linking several of our oldest shell companies to an international syndicate that was trying to force a hostile takeover of the Hudson shipping routes,” Charles confessed, his voice trembling under the weight of the confession. “She found out that certain members of your inner circle—people you trusted—were actively cutting deals behind your back to sell off the family assets.”

Vincent’s head whipped around, his dark eyes instantly locking onto Isabella.

Isabella stepped back, shaking her head frantically. “No! It wasn't me! I didn't—!”

“It was your uncle, Isabella,” Charles spat out, pointing a shaky finger at her. “Your family engineered the entire corporate trap. But Sofia threatened to take the evidence straight to federal prosecutors and to you, Vincent, no matter the cost to herself.”

“So what did you do?” Vincent whispered, stepping forward so fast that Charles flinched backward.

“We didn't kill her!” Charles shouted defensively, raising his hands. “We couldn't risk a federal investigation that would bring the whole house down on all of us. So... we traded her. We made a deal with the syndicate.”

Dominic stepped forward, his expression turning murderous. “Traded her to who?”

“The eastern syndicate operatives running the shipping ports in Montauk,” Charles breathed heavily, sweat pouring down his face. “They took her off the books. They locked her away in an abandoned coastal holding facility outside of Greenport—a secure vault beneath an old fish-processing plant controlled by the cartel. In exchange, they signed over the voting rights to the Moretti shipping logistics, and Isabella was installed here to keep you distracted, pacified, and legally cornered.”

The silence that rushed back into the ballroom was heavier than lead.

Vincent Moretti stood completely motionless. The terrifying, controlled fury that had defined his reputation for decades suddenly surged forward, stripping away every civilized veneer he had spent fifteen years building.

He didn't scream. He didn't throw furniture.

He simply looked down at his hands, then raised his eyes to Dominic.