Chapter 9 - The Purge of Beacon Hill
By 3:00 AM, the mansion on Beacon Hill was surrounded by non-marked black sedans.
Dante Rossi’s private security detail had completely locked down the estate grounds, disabling all external security cameras and securing the perimeter against any outside interference.
In the grand living room downstairs, Eleanor Vance sat on the silk sofa, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, sipping warm tea while seven-year-old Mia sat beside her, showing her a drawing she had made on a piece of kitchen notepad paper.
Lily slept peacefully in a wooden crib set up near the fireplace, while Grace sat in an armchair nearby, her wounds cleaned and bandaged by our private medical staff.
Upstairs in my private study, Dominic Duca sat handcuffed to a heavy oak chair, facing two federal prosecutors from the Organized Crime Division whom Dante had brought through the garden entrance twenty minutes prior.
On my mahogany desk lay Eleanor’s journal, along with thirty years of hidden bank ledgers pulled from the subterranean server unit.
“Mr. Duca,” Prosecutor Miller said, reviewing the vast array of original property deeds and wire transfer logs spread across the desk. “This evidence is sufficient to dismantle every commercial holding registered under Dominic Duca’s name in the state of Massachusetts. But it also implicates several historical assets owned by the Duca family foundation.”
I stood near the window, looking out at the rain falling softly over the quiet streets of Beacon Hill.
“Seize them,” I said flatly.
Dominic lifted his head sharply, staring at me in absolute disbelief. “Roman! That’s our family legacy! That’s thirty years of wealth!”
I turned to face him, my expression cold as stone.
“It wasn't a legacy, Dominic,” I said. “It was a crime scene built on top of a living woman’s grave.”
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I looked at Prosecutor Miller. “Take him away. Full cooperation from my private security team. Every server, every financial node, every asset under my uncle’s control is yours.”
The federal agents pulled Dominic up from the chair, leading him out of the study. As he passed the doorway, my uncle looked at me with bitter, helpless rage, but he didn't say another word.
