Chapter 9
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the scratching of the notary’s pen as he prepared the signature lines. The bright sunlight illuminated the stark contrast between the immaculate, powerful bride and the two broken men trapped in her web.
"You can't do this," Warren whispered, his fair skin completely ashen. "You're taking everything. We'll have nothing."
"You came into this arrangement with nothing," Giulietta reminded him coldly. "You were just too arrogant to admit it. Now, you have a choice. Sign the documents, surrender your remaining wealth, and I will hand these confessions over to the FBI. You will go to federal prison. It will be unpleasant, but you will be alive."
"And the alternative?" Preston asked, his voice trembling so violently he could barely form the words.
Giulietta stood up straight, looking at the two massive capos guarding the door. "The alternative is that Marco and Vincent escort you down to the service elevator. We take a ride to the docks. And I let the Russians know exactly who lost their money."
Warren let out a broken, pathetic sob. He knew exactly what the Russian syndicate did to people who lost their money. Federal prison was a country club compared to the basement of a Brighton Beach warehouse.
"Give me the pen," Warren wept, dragging himself across the floor toward the vanity. His polished shoes scuffed against the wood. His shaking hands reached out, grasping the luxury pen the notary offered.
"Dad, don't do it!" Preston cried, grabbing his own hair in panic. "We can fight this!"
"Shut up, Preston!" Warren roared, tears streaming down his face as he frantically signed his name on page after page. "She's beaten us! It's over! Sign the damn papers so we don't end up at the bottom of the river!"
Preston, finally realizing the absolute totality of his defeat, let out a loud, humiliating wail. He pushed himself off the sofa, stumbling toward the vanity. His hands shook so badly he could barely hold the pen, his messy signature staining the bottom of the contracts.
Giulietta watched them with cold, clinical satisfaction. She had systematically dismantled a rival family, secured a massive financial empire, and neutralized a threat to her own life, all before her wedding ceremony was supposed to begin.
"Done," the notary squeaked, gathering the papers quickly and snapping his briefcase shut. He bowed slightly to Giulietta and hurried out the door, protected by the capos outside.
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"We signed them," Warren gasped, collapsing back onto the floor, clutching his chest. "We gave you everything. Now call the FBI. Send us to prison."
"Marco," Giulietta said, turning to the guard. "Zip-tie their hands. Put them in the service elevator. Call the feds and tell them where they can pick up our trash."
