Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Crown
The penthouse suite of the Drake Hotel smelled of stale champagne, expensive cigars, and perfumed silk. Michael DeLuca sat on a velvet sofa, his tie undone, holding a glass of twenty-year-old scotch. Beside him, Vanessa Romano leaned against his shoulder, scrolling through social media posts covering the scene at the gala.
"The press is calling it a minor family dispute," Vanessa purred, tracing her manicured fingernail along Michael’s lapel. "I had our PR team release a statement saying Natalie suffered an emotional episode due to hormonal stress. It protects the company's stock."
Michael stared into his amber glass, silent.
The image of Natalie’s ring sinking to the bottom of his champagne flute kept repeating in his mind. He had expected her to cry. He had expected her to retreat to the back of the room, as she usually did when his corporate world overwhelmed her. He had never seen her look at him with such utter, absolute detachment.
His phone buzzed on the glass table. It was Paulie.
Michael picked it up. "Is it done? Did you get the laptop?"
"Boss... we ran into a wall," Paulie’s voice came through, strained and hesitant. "Dominick Vance was at the hospital."
Michael’s hand locked around his glass. "Dominick Vance? The old Bellini attorney? Why the hell would Vance be at Mercy Lakes?"
"He brought federal security, Michael. He served us with a broad restraining order. And... there’s something else."
Michael stood up, shoving Vanessa off his shoulder. "What else?"
"The kid was born two hours ago. It's a boy."
Michael’s breath hitched. A son. The heir he had talked about for three years while forcing Natalie through endless fertility treatments. "Is he okay?"
"He's in the NICU. But Vance said... Vance said you're getting served at eight o'clock tomorrow morning at the corporate board meeting."
"Served with what? A divorce petition?" Michael scoffed bitterly. "She has no grounds to claim corporate assets. She signed the prenup."
"It's not a divorce petition, Michael," Paulie whispered. "It's an eviction notice."
Before Michael could demand an explanation, the call disconnected.
Across town, inside the quiet nursery of the NICU, Natalie stood leaning against a wooden wheelchair, watching her tiny son breathe through a miniature oxygen mask. Dominick stood a few paces behind her, holding a thick ledger bound in faded black leather.
"Your mother kept this hidden in a safety deposit box in Geneva, Natalie," Dominick said gently. "She knew that one day, the men who destroyed the Bellini family would try to claim the port lands. She made sure that your identity was buried so deep that even Michael DeLuca couldn't find it when he married you."
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Natalie touched the clear plastic wall of the incubator. "Michael didn't marry me because of my past, Dominick. He married me because I worked eighteen hours a day to pay his rent while he was begging loan sharks for his first three trucks."
"And he forgot," Dominick said. "He thought you were weak because you were gentle. Tomorrow, we remind him who owns the ground he walks on."
