Chapter 9
Alaric walked over to the ruined gift table and picked up a large velvet box that had fallen among the wreckage. He opened it, revealing an antique silver rattle engraved with the Montesi family crest—a gift meant for the unborn child.
He carried it back and placed it gently in Serena’s hands.
“Bastian,” Alaric said, his voice dropping into a solemn, ceremonial tone. “Seven years ago, I gave you my daughter’s hand. I gave you a seat at this table. I gave you my trust, though every instinct told me your father had raised a jackal.”
Bastian stared at the floor, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“You broke every oath you swore on the altar,” Alaric continued. “You betrayed my house. You conspired with rats to steal from my blood, and you attempted to murder my future.”
Alaric turned to Marco. “Take Mrs. Coletti to her residence. Pack one suitcase of personal belongings. By sunrise, she is to be on a train out of the state. If she ever crosses the Hudson River again, she will not need a ticket back.”
Two guards hauled Bianca to her feet. She struggled and cursed, spitting profanities at Serena, at Alaric, and at every man at the table, but the heavy oak doors swallowed her cries as she was dragged down the hall.
“And Bastian?” Marco asked, stepping up behind the broken husband.
Alaric didn’t answer right away. He looked at Serena, granting her the final judgment.
Serena stepped forward until she stood directly before her husband. She looked at his bruised face, remembering the wedding day, the promises, the shared dreams that had all been hollow shells filled with greed and poison.
“You wanted to know who inherits my father’s empire,” Serena whispered.
Bastian looked up, his eyes dull with defeat.
“Tomorrow, Dr. Gabriel is performing an early scheduled delivery,” Serena said, placing both hands over her rounded stomach. “My daughter will be born into a clean house. She will carry my last name. She will be taught how to lead, how to fight, and how to govern this city.”
Serena leaned in close, her voice a razor against his ear. “You thought a girl couldn't inherit this world, Bastian. You will spend the rest of your life watching her rule it from behind the walls of a federal penitentiary.”
May you like
She stepped back. “Take him away, Marco. Give the federal prosecutor the Cayman files.”
Bastian tried to speak, to beg, to scream, but Marco’s heavy hand clamped over his shoulder, and two enforcers dragged him backward out of the light of the chandelier, his heels scraping against the blood-stained carpet until the heavy doors slammed shut behind him.
