Chapter 5 - Face-to-Face with the Beast
When the gilded iron elevator carried us back to the ground floor, the grand lobby of Manhattan Trust looked like an executive war room on the verge of a shootout.
Six private security guards in slate-gray suits stood flanking Richard Sinclair, who was pacing frantically in front of the marble teller counters. Vanessa stood behind him, wrapped in a chinchilla fur coat, tapping her high heel against the floor with irritated impatience.
"I am a premier shareholder of this institution!" Richard was shouting at the trembling bank president. "That vault box belongs to a former proprietary employee of my firm! Any documents inside are corporate property under federal trade secret statutes!"
"The box belongs to Evelyn Foster’s estate," Matteo's voice cut through the cavernous room like a guillotine.
Richard froze, whipping around. Vanessa stopped tapping her foot, her eyes narrowing as she spotted me standing beside the most powerful man in the city.
"Matteo," Richard said, forcing an oily, desperate smile that failed to mask the sheer terror twitching in his eyes. "This is a private corporate matter. You have no jurisdiction here. You don't know the full story."
"I know every word of it," Matteo said, descending the three marble steps into the center of the lobby. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. His stature alone commanded the room. "I know about the forged surrender agreement of 1998. I know about the suppressed toxicity reports. And I know that half of every penny your family has spent over the past three decades was stolen from an orphaned child."
Vanessa scoffed loudly, stepping past her father. "Are you out of your mind, Matteo? You're taking the word of a knocked-up banquet waitress over my father? Look at her! She’s probably sleeping with half of Queens! She probably targeted my father knowing—"
Before Vanessa could finish the sentence, Matteo crossed the distance between them in two blinding strides.
He didn't touch her, but he leaned down until his eyes were inches from hers. The pure, unadulterated menace radiating from him forced the heiress back two full steps until her heel caught on the base of a pillar, almost sending her sprawling.
"You have spoken your last insult to Abigail Foster," Matteo whispered, every syllable coated in venom. "One more derogatory word out of your mouth, Vanessa, and I will personally see to it that you spend the next ten years in a federal penitentiary sharing a cell with women who do not care about your couture gowns."
"Matteo, please!" Richard intervened, his voice cracking. He raised his hands, sweat glistening on his receding hairline. "Let's be reasonable. We can settle this. Fifty million. Abigail, I will write you a check for fifty million dollars right now. You can live like a queen anywhere in the world. Just hand over the journals."
I stepped out from behind Matteo's shoulder.
For twenty-six years, I had walked through life with my head down, apologizing for my presence, dreading the landlord’s knock, enduring the sneers of wealthy socialites while carrying their dirty plates. But as I looked at the man who had driven my mother into poverty and an early grave, the fear evaporated, replaced by a cold, searing clarity.
"My mother died in a municipal hospice ward, Mr. Sinclair," I said, my voice echoing off the limestone walls. "She died in pain because she couldn't afford the very medicine she invented. And you think you can buy her soul for fifty million dollars?"
"Abigail, you don't understand how the industry works—" Richard pleaded.
"Keep your money," I said, holding my chin high, feeling my unborn daughter kick firmly against my ribs as if echoing my defiance. "Because within a month, you won't have a single dollar left to your name."
Richard’s face contorted with sudden, desperate malice. He turned toward his lead security officer. "Seize that box! It’s stolen corporate property! Take it!"
The six gray-suited guards moved forward, reaching for their holsters.
They never made it two feet.
In a synchronized blur of motion, Lev and eight Romano security operatives emerged from the side alcoves, their weapons drawn and leveled with military precision. The sharp clicks of chambering rounds echoed like thunderclaps through the bank.
"Try it," Matteo said casually, stepping directly into Richard’s line of sight. "Give me an excuse to end this today."
Richard’s security guards immediately raised their empty hands, stepping back. They were paid well, but nobody committed suicide for Sinclair stock.
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Richard sank against a marble desk, looking twenty years older, his breath rattling in his chest.
"Lev," Matteo commanded, extending his arm to guide me toward the exit. "Call the United States Attorney’s Office. Tell them Dr. Evelyn Foster’s evidence has officially resurfaced."
