Chapter 5 – The Signature on the Forged Contract
Julian crumpled to the marble floor, clutching his shattered nose, groaning in agony. Blood pooled on the pristine white tiles.
Isabella gasped, hiding her face in her stuffed rabbit.
Emily immediately ran to the little girl, scooping her up into her arms and pressing Isabella’s head into her shoulder.
“It’s okay, sweetie. Don’t look,” Emily whispered, carrying the child back down the hallway, away from the violence.
Dominic stood over Julian, his chest heaving. He grabbed the Carlisle heir by the lapels of his ruined suit and dragged him to his feet.
“Where is he?” Dominic roared, slamming Julian against the heavy oak doors.
Julian choked on his own blood, terrified. “The… the warehouse. Pier 42. He’s at Pier 42!”
Dominic dropped him. He looked up at Marcus.
“Lock him in the basement,” Dominic ordered. “Get the men. We’re going to the pier.”
Emily returned to the foyer just as the guards were dragging a sobbing Julian away.
“I’m coming with you,” Emily said fiercely. She had left Isabella with Mrs. Dawson. She wasn’t going to hide while her father’s life was on the line.
Dominic looked at her. He saw the fire in her green eyes—the same fire his sister Clara used to have.
“Stay behind me,” he instructed.
Five armored SUVs tore out of the Moretti estate, speeding toward the industrial docks. The rain had turned into a torrential downpour, washing the city in slick, dark shadows.
When they arrived at Pier 42, the warehouse was heavily guarded. A dozen Carlisle mercenaries patrolled the perimeter with automatic weapons.
Dominic didn’t bother with stealth.
“Take them down,” he ordered over the radio.
The Moretti enforcers surged forward. Suppressed gunfire echoed through the rain. Within three minutes, the perimeter was secured. Dominic and Emily rushed through the rusted metal doors of the warehouse.
Inside, it smelled of saltwater and oil. In the center of the massive, empty space sat a makeshift medical tent.
Emily sprinted toward it. “Dad!”
She burst through the plastic flaps.
Arthur Parker was lying on a gurney, a ventilator tube down his throat, surrounded by beeping monitors. A terrified Carlisle doctor was hovering over him, his hands raised in surrender as Dominic stepped into the tent with his gun drawn.
“Keep him alive, or you die next,” Dominic told the doctor.
Emily fell to her knees beside the gurney, grabbing her father’s cold hand. Tears streamed down her face.
“I’m here, Dad. I’m here.”
Dominic holstered his weapon and began searching the small desk in the corner of the tent. He needed to know why the Carlisles had gone to such extreme lengths to hide Arthur.
He opened a metal lockbox and pulled out a thick stack of documents.
He flipped through them, his frown deepening.
“Emily,” Dominic called out quietly.
She wiped her eyes and walked over to him.
Dominic handed her a heavily redacted legal contract.
“Look at the signature at the bottom,” he said.
Emily looked. It was a contract signing over all rights to a massive offshore trust fund, transferring the money directly to the Carlisle Estate Management firm.
The signature at the bottom read: Arthur Parker.
“He signed away millions,” Dominic muttered. “But where did he get millions of dollars?”
Emily stared at the signature. A sudden, sharp realization hit her.
“He didn’t sign this,” Emily said, her voice shaking.
Dominic looked at her. “It’s a perfect match for his handwriting.”
“No, it’s not,” Emily said, pointing to the slant of the letters. “Look at the way the ‘P’ leans to the right. A right-handed person writes like that.”
She looked up at Dominic, her green eyes wide.
“My dad is left-handed, Mr. Moretti. He always complained that spiral notebooks dug into his wrist. He never wrote like this.”
Dominic stared at the paper. If Arthur didn’t sign it, it was forged. But to forge a signature perfectly, someone needed access to original documents. Someone needed intimate knowledge of the Moretti family trusts.
Dominic flipped to the last page of the contract. He looked at the notary signature—the person who legally verified that Arthur Parker had signed the document.
Dominic’s blood ran cold.
The notary stamp belonged to Marcus Vincenzo.
Dominic’s trusted consigliere. The man who had stood beside him for fifteen years. The man who was currently outside guarding the perimeter.
“It was an inside job,” Dominic whispered, absolute betrayal washing over him. “Marcus forged the documents. He and Vanessa’s family stole the trust fund my father left for Clara’s child.”
Before Dominic could process the betrayal, the plastic flaps of the tent blew open.
Marcus stood in the doorway, an assault rifle pointed directly at Dominic’s chest.
“I’m sorry, Boss,” Marcus said, his face completely devoid of emotion. “But the Carlisles pay much better.”
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