Chapter 9 - The Fall of the House
"Security!" Matteo suddenly roared, slamming his hands onto the mahogany podium. "Remove this man! He’s unstable! He’s an impostor!"
Four heavy-set private security guards stepped forward to intercept me, but Colonel Vance raised a single hand.
Ten uniformed federal officers moved in fluid formation, drawing their weapons and instantly disarming Matteo’s private guards before a single hand could touch me.
"Matteo Rossi," Colonel Vance’s stern voice echoed through the hall. "By order of the Federal District Court of Rome, you are under arrest for international smuggling, corporate fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder."
"This is an outrage!" Matteo shrieked, backing away toward the rear stage curtain. "You have no proof! No evidence!"
I stepped onto the stage, pulling a heavy black encrypted flash drive from my pocket and setting it directly onto the podium reader connected to the main presentation screen.
"Page forty-two of the customs manifest, Matteo," I said, hitting the enter key.
The massive forty-foot projection screen behind the stage flickered to life.
Detailed shipping logs, offshore bank transfers, and recorded security audio from my villa’s driveway filled the screen in high definition. The audio recording—captured by the villa’s hidden perimeter sensors that Bram had reactivated—played clearly through the hall speakers:
"Check the gardens. Check the guest house. If he’s still on the grounds, put a bullet in his head..."
The room erupted into absolute chaos. Shareholders stood up, yelling in outrage. Reporters flooded the stage perimeter, their flashbulbs creating a blinding storm of white light.
Elena broke down into hysterical tears, sinking to her knees on the stage as federal officers stepped forward to place steel handcuffs around her wrists.
Matteo tried to bolt through the backstage service exit, but Bram was already waiting in the doorway.
Bram grabbed Matteo by his lapels, lifted him two feet off the floor, and set him down directly at the feet of the arresting officers.
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I walked up to Matteo, looking down at the man I had once called a brother.
"You spent three years studying my schedule, my business, and my life, Matteo," I said softly, my voice cold as ice. "But you lost to a seven-year-old girl who noticed a single digit on a license plate."
