Chapter 10 - The Ledger of Truth
Beatrice stared at the woman standing in the doorway, her mouth curling into a sneer of utter contempt.
“Get that creature out of my house,” Beatrice spat.
“This isn't your house, Beatrice,” Elena said, her voice steady, clear, and ringing with an authority she hadn't possessed four hours ago.
She walked forward into the light of the grand chandelier, her scuffed shoes clicking against the pristine marble.
She didn't look like a woman who had lived on dishwashing wages.
She looked like Giancarlo Caruso’s true heir.
She set Sophie gently onto the velvet settee near the fire.
Sophie clutched her one-eyed bear, her eyes darting to the towering portrait of Giancarlo hanging above the mantle.
The resemblance was undeniable.
The broad jaw.
The high cheekbones.
And those unmistakable storm-cloud gray eyes.
Marco entered behind them, flanked by two uniformed federal marshals and an elderly man with silver hair carrying a battered leather briefcase.
When Beatrice saw the elderly man, the color completely drained from her face.
“Arthur?” she whispered.
Arthur Pendelton.
My father’s personal attorney for forty-five years.
A man who had supposedly retired to an estate in Tuscany six years ago, completely out of reach.
“Hello, Beatrice,” Arthur said, his voice deep and gravelly with age.
“You told everyone I had dementia. You told Matteo I had passed away in a nursing facility in Florence.”
Arthur stepped to the mahogany table, pulling out a sealed, wax-stamped envelope from his coat pocket.
“Giancarlo knew you better than you thought, Beatrice. He knew you would try to dismantle the trust the moment he was gone. That was why he sent me away with the true originals.”
“That document is invalid!” Beatrice shrieked, taking a step backward toward the fireplace.
“I have the power of attorney!”
“You had a forged power of attorney,” Marco announced, pulling up a tablet screen displaying a signed federal arrest warrant.
“Dr. Vance’s private diaries were recovered from his safe deposit box an hour ago by the FBI. He kept audio recordings of every threat you made against his family. Every extortion payment you funneled through Valence Holdings.”
Arthur broke the red wax seal on the envelope, unfolding the parchment with deliberate slowness.
“Giancarlo’s true last will and testament contains an automatic revocation clause,” Arthur read aloud, his voice echoing off the limestone walls.
“‘Should any member of the collateral Caruso line attempt to obscure, threaten, or disinherit the biological descendants of Clara Marie Vance, all shares, estates, liquid capital, and trusts held by said collateral line shall immediately revert to the direct primary heir.’”
Arthur looked up, fixing his gaze directly on Beatrice.
“You don't own five percent anymore, Beatrice. You don't own this house. You don't own the clothes on your back. You are completely and totally destitute.”
Beatrice looked wildly around the room.
At the federal marshals waiting by the door.
At Arthur.
At Marco.
At me.
And finally, at the small, sick child sitting quietly on the antique settee.
“This is an outrage!” Beatrice screamed, her voice cracking into hysterics.
“I am a Caruso! You cannot throw me into the street for a nameless beggar!”
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“She has a name,” I said, stepping between Beatrice and my family.
“Her name is Sophie Caruso. And you will never speak it again.”
