Chapter 7 - Fifty-One Percent
The story hit the press before dinner.
CATERING MAID MAY INHERIT MORETTI FORTUNE.
By eight o’clock, I had become:
The Maid Heiress.
The Lost Moretti.
The Billion-Dollar Server.
The Mafia Cinderella.
I hated all of them.
Someone found an old photograph of me working at a hotel buffet.
Another showed me carrying laundry bags at a Manhattan residence.
People who had never met me discussed my weight.
My clothes.
My education.
My mother.
One television host actually asked whether someone “with her background” could manage a multibillion-dollar company.
I turned off the television.
Vincent turned it back on.
“Why?”
“Because hiding from people doesn’t make them disappear.”
“Neither does listening to them.”
“Fair.”
The reporter moved to Vivian.
She stood outside her father’s townhouse.
Perfect coat.
Perfect hair.
Perfect expression of injured dignity.
“I regret that an unfortunate misunderstanding at a private family event has been distorted.”
I stared at the screen.
“Misunderstanding?”
Vivian continued.
“I never intended to harm Ms. Rossi.”
I lifted my bandaged forearm.
Vincent looked at it.
Then at the television.
Vivian said:
“I believe certain people are exploiting the incident for financial advantage.”
“Certain people,” I repeated.
Vincent took out his phone.
“Don’t.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t even know what I was going to do.”
“Something expensive.”
That stopped him.
I continued watching.
Then the reporter played footage.
Not security footage.
A phone recording.
Taken by one of the young servers.
Vivian’s voice echoed through the television.
Kneel.
My own voice:
No.
I said clean my shoes.
Give me a towel.
Then Vivian:
People like you never understand until someone teaches you where you belong.
The first crack sounded.
I flinched.
Vincent noticed.
I hated that he noticed.
The video ended before the second strike.
The reporter looked shaken.
Within an hour, Vivian’s statement had collapsed.
Sponsors withdrew from two charities where she served as honorary chair.
A fashion house canceled an appearance.
Her father issued no statement.
I should have felt satisfied.
I didn’t.
Humiliation wasn’t justice.
I knew that better than anyone.
That night, Eleanor called.
“The board vote is tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“Renato petitioned for emergency review.”
“Can he appear?”
“Remotely.”
“Convenient.”
The meeting took place at nine the next morning.
Twenty-one directors.
Lawyers.
Auditors.
Vincent.
Me.
I wore the only black suit I owned.
It came from a discount store.
The woman sitting opposite me wore a watch worth more than my apartment building.
I liked my suit better.
Renato appeared on a screen.
Seventy-four.
Silver hair.
Intelligent eyes.
Nothing monstrous.
That bothered me.
He looked like someone’s grandfather.
“Nora.”
His voice matched the phone.
My skin tightened.
“Uncle Renato.”
Vincent glanced at me.
I had not discussed the greeting with him.
Renato smiled.
“Family manners.”
“I was raised well.”
“I knew Elena would manage that.”
My hands tightened beneath the table.
“You don’t get to say her name.”
The smile faded slightly.
Vincent leaned toward the microphone.
“This meeting concerns the trust.”
Renato ignored him.
“You look very much like your mother.”
“I’ve been told.”
“She was stubborn too.”
“Is that why you tried to kill her?”
Half the board froze.
Renato’s expression remained calm.
“Stories become distorted.”
“So do death certificates.”
That got him.
Just for a fraction of a second.
I saw irritation.
Good.
Eleanor presented the DNA evidence.
Birth records.
My mother’s photographs.
Vittoria’s trust.
Renato’s attorney argued that Elena’s official death date preceded my birth.
Eleanor countered with medical records proving Elena lived under the surname Rossi.
Then I spoke.
“I have no interest in pretending this family’s history is normal.”
Several directors shifted.
“I was carrying champagne six days ago.”
I looked around.
“Some of you probably believe that makes me unqualified to sit here.”
Nobody answered.
“You may be right.”
Vincent’s eyebrow lifted.
“But I know how people are treated when they have no power.”
I looked toward Renato’s screen.
“And after meeting the people who have power here, I’m beginning to think that may be the more useful qualification.”
Silence.
Then one director smiled.
The vote came.
Fourteen recognized my temporary authority pending final court confirmation.
Six opposed.
One abstained.
I had control.
Renato stared at me from the screen.
“Congratulations.”
I didn’t trust his smile.
“Thank you.”
“You should enjoy your first victory.”
“Why?”
“Because Elena enjoyed hers too.”
The screen went black.
Ten minutes later, Marco entered.
He carried the enhanced audio from the ballroom recording.
“There’s something you need to hear.”
He played the seconds immediately before Vivian retrieved the crop.
The recording was faint.
Vivian’s voice.
Then another.
A man.
Vivian whispered:
My father said she was dead.
The man answered:
Your father believes what Renato tells him.
Then Vivian:
What do I do?
The answer was almost inaudible.
Marco enhanced it.
We listened again.
Get the locket. Whatever it takes.
Vincent stared at the speaker.
I did too.
May you like
Because I recognized the voice.
Luca Santoro.
