Chapter 9 - MARCO’S MEMORY OF TWENTY YEARS AGO
Dante rose slowly to his full height.
The transition was magnificent and terrifying. The grieving, broken don who had walked into Boston Common two hours ago was gone; standing on the gravel path was an absolute monarch whose soul had just been returned to him.
He slipped the antique brass key into the front pocket of his tailored charcoal trousers, feeling the cold metal press against his thigh like a sovereign seal. In his other hand, he held the paper bakery bag of warm cookies that Clara had happily handed to him, trusting him completely.
He turned his dark, smoldering gaze toward Marco.
Marco stood on the grass, his charcoal suit jacket open, his hands trembling slightly, his eyes still wide with the shock of what had just been uncovered.
“Marco,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, steady register that carried the force of an imperial decree.
“Boss,” Marco answered immediately, stepping forward, his posture locking into rigid attention.
“Twenty years ago,” Dante murmured, his dark eyes boring into his security chief. “When my father ordered the Cadence Trust dissolved… who signed the final disposition of the properties on Joy Street?”
Marco swallowed hard, his throat dry as ash. He had been a nineteen-year-old soldier standing guard outside the study the night that decree was issued.
“Nicholas, Boss,” Marco answered, his voice hushed with reverence. “Your father gave Nicholas the master seal and told him to liquidate every asset tied to your sister’s name. Nicholas reported that the funds were transferred to an offshore holding company in the Caymans, and that the physical properties were sold to a private Boston educational charity.”
Marco looked at Clara, who was now holding Dante’s left hand, her small fingers wrapped securely around two of his large, calloused, ink-covered knuckles.
“It wasn't a charity sale, was it, Boss?” Marco whispered. “Nicholas didn't liquidate it. He transferred the Joy Street house into a blind irrevocable trust… with himself as the sole trustee. He used the family’s own money to build a fortress for her right in the middle of Beacon Hill, hidden in plain sight under the church’s charter.”
“Nicholas was smarter than my father,” Dante said softly, his voice thick with gratitude for the dead man he had buried this morning. “My father would have used Cadence as collateral. He would have married her off to an underboss in New York or brought her into the crosshairs of the Genovese family. Nicholas saved her from us. He built an island of peace in the middle of our war.”
Luca had stepped forward as well, his eyes soft as he looked down at the little girl swinging her feet on the path.
“Boss,” Luca asked quietly. “What do we do about the children’s home? If Nicholas is dead… the trust will revert to probate within thirty days. The city will send auditors.”
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Dante’s jaw locked with enough force to crack bone. The cold, lethal authority of the Moretti family flared to life behind his dark eyes, absolute and unyielding.
“No auditor will ever cross that threshold,” Dante said, his words falling like iron plates on stone. “Call Arthur at the legal firm. I want the deed to the Joy Street property transferred directly into Clara Marie Moretti’s name before the close of business today. And tell the private security teams in the North End to establish a twenty-four-hour perimeter around that block. If anyone from the city, the banks, or the other families even looks down Joy Street… they answer to me.”
