Chapter 7 - The Boardroom at Watch Hill
By 1:45 PM, the Ferraro compound on Narragansett Bay looked like a military command post under siege.
The white wedding tent had already been dismantled by frightened catering crews working in the downpour.
Dozens of flower arrangements lay ruined and sodden beside the gravel driveways.
In the grand private library on the ground floor, cigar smoke hung thick and heavy beneath the coffered ceilings.
Arthur Russo sat in the leather wingback chair behind the mahogany desk—a seat that had belonged exclusively to Luca’s late father.
Arthur was sixty-two years old, with silver hair cropped short like a general’s and cold, calculating gray eyes that treated human beings like freight cargo.
Uncle Dominic sat on the sofa nearby, sipping bourbon with a tense, worried scowl.
Teresa stood beside the marble fireplace, her silk dress changed to a severe charcoal Chanel suit.
Vivienne sat quietly in a corner chair, her hands folded primly over her leather clutch, looking like the picture of an aggrieved, patient socialite bride.
The double oak doors of the library slammed open.
Luca walked in.
His hair was soaked with rainwater.
His custom tuxedo shirt was crumpled, the collar torn open at the throat without a tie.
He carried the sharp, damp smell of city rain and construction dust into the room.
Arthur Russo slowly took the cigar from his mouth and smiled without warmth.
“Look at what the storm dragged back to Rhode Island,” Arthur said, his voice a gravelly baritone.
“Sit down, Luca. We have a great deal of damage control to coordinate before the press gets a hold of this mess.”
Luca did not sit down.
He walked straight to the mahogany desk and leaned over it, placing both hands flat on the polished wood.
“Get out of my father’s chair, Arthur.”
The library went dead silent.
Uncle Dominic set his bourbon glass down with a sharp clink against the side table.
“Luca!” Dominic barked.
“Show some respect! Arthur flew up from New York on thirty minutes’ notice to salvage this disaster!”
“Arthur flew up here like a vulture to feast on an empty wedding,” Luca countered, never breaking eye contact with the older man.
Arthur chuckled softly, resting his heavy forearms on the desk.
“You made a fool of yourself this morning, son.”
“You brought some working-class girl from the Worcester suburbs into our circle, gave her a diamond, and expected her to know how to navigate high water.”
“She choked under the pressure, and she ran away like a frightened rabbit.”
“She didn't choke,” Luca said coldly.
“She saw through you. She saw through my mother. And she saw through me.”
Vivienne stood up from her chair, her voice soft and plaintive.
“Luca, please don't do this to yourself. My father has already instructed his media relations team to draft the retraction.”
“We can announce our formal engagement tomorrow evening at the Newport Yacht Club benefit.”
“The press will frame Claire as an unfortunate temporary lapse in judgment before you returned to your senses.”
Luca turned slowly to face Vivienne.
“A temporary lapse in judgment?”
“Luca, let’s be frank,” Arthur interrupted, tapping his cigar against a crystal tray.
“My maritime firm controls the Rotterdam dock facilities.”
“Your logistics fleet needs those berths to fulfill your supply chain contracts with the European Union.”
“Without my sign-off on Monday, your stock will tumble thirty percent within forty-eight hours of opening bell.”
“You cannot afford Claire Donovan’s hurt feelings, boy.”
“You either announce your marriage to Vivienne by Friday, or I revoke your docking privileges in the Netherlands and call the ninety-million-dollar promissory note due by five o’clock.”
Teresa stepped toward the desk, her face pale with anxious tension.
“Sign the joint statement, Luca,” she commanded, holding out an embossed fountain pen.
“Do it now for the family.”
Luca looked at the pen in his mother’s hand.
Then he looked at Arthur sitting smugly in his father’s chair.
Then he remembered Claire’s words in the damp warehouse:
In three seconds, you told me everything I will ever need to know about the next forty years of my life.
Luca let out a long, quiet breath that sounded like a sigh of liberation.
He reached into his suit jacket.
Teresa’s eyes brightened, assuming he was reaching for his reading glasses to sign the document.
Instead, Luca pulled out the leather-bound ledger containing his personal voting proxies for the Ferraro Logistics Executive Board.
He tossed it violently onto the desk, knocking Arthur’s crystal ashtray to the floor, where it shattered across the antique Persian rug.
“Call the notes, Arthur,” Luca said softly.
Arthur’s smile vanished instantly.
“What did you say?”
“I said call the notes due,” Luca repeated, his voice rising with deadly certainty.
“Revoke the Rotterdam berths.”
“Dump your five percent stake in Ferraro Logistics on the open market.”
“Luca, you are insane!” Dominic yelled, leaping to his feet from the sofa.
“That will trigger an immediate board review! They will strip you of your title as Chief Executive!”
“Then let them strip it,” Luca answered, turning his gaze on his uncle.
“I own thirty-two percent of the voting equity in my own name, Dominic.”
“My father left that directly to me, not to the family trust.”
“If the board moves against me, I will dissolve the transatlantic division before Monday morning and liquidate the vessels individually at auction.”
Teresa gasped, her hand flying to her throat in sheer horror.
“You would burn your father’s company down for that carpenter girl?”
“My father built this company on his word, Mother,” Luca said, turning to her with eyes like blazing obsidian.
“You turned it into a whorehouse of social pedigree and blackmail.”
“Claire didn't run away because she couldn't handle your world.”
“She ran away because she had too much self-respect to sit at a table where honor is bought and sold for shipping docks.”
Luca leaned down until his face was six inches from Arthur Russo’s nose.
“You have exactly ten minutes to get your helicopter off my lawn, Arthur.”
“If that machine is still turning its blades on my grass at two-fifteen, I will have Marcus impound it for trespassing on private coastal waters.”
Arthur stood up slowly, his face dark with suppressed rage.
“You will regret this day until the hour you die, Ferraro.”
May you like
“I already regret everything about today, Arthur,” Luca replied without blinking.
“Now get the hell out of my house.”
