Chapter 13 - The Vulture Resurfaces
Forty-eight hours later, our private jet touched down at JFK under a blanket of slate-gray autumn clouds. The Mediterranean sun was already a distant memory. Manhattan welcomed us back with the roar of sirens, the steel chill of October, and a brewing storm that smelled distinctly of revenge.
We didn't return to my old penthouse, nor did we stay at the Moretti family brownstone. Julian brought me to his residence: a glass-and-steel fortress occupying the top three floors of the Vance Tower, overlooking Central Park.
"Security has been tripled," Julian said as he reviewed the tablet handed to him by his head of security, a quiet, broad-shouldered ex-intelligence officer named Vance. "The messenger who delivered the music box to Lake Como used a forged diplomatic passport out of Zurich. We tracked the wire transfer used to pay the courier back to an anonymous numbered account in the Cayman Islands."
"Carter doesn't have the sophistication for that," I said, pacing across the polished terrazzo floor, shedding my camel-hair coat. "Carter is an idiot who thought he could hide million-dollar wire transfers under jewelry receipts. This level of offshore secrecy requires real institutional power."
"Precisely," Julian agreed. "Carter was released from Rikers Island on bail yesterday morning."
I stopped dead in my tracks, whirling around. "Bail was set at twenty-five million dollars cash! All his domestic accounts were frozen, and the Moretti board liquidated his stock options. Who put up twenty-five million for a disgraced embezzler?"
"That's what we are going to find out tonight," Julian said, offering a cold, dangerous smile that sent a shiver down my spine. "Tonight is the annual Metropolitan Opera Gala. Every predator in this city will be under one roof. And our mysterious benefactor just RSVP’d as the guest of honor."
The Lincoln Center was a riot of flashing paparazzi bulbs, velvet ropes, and black-tie royalty when Julian’s armored Maybach pulled to the curb. The press went into an absolute frenzy the second Julian stepped out and turned to offer me his hand.
I wore an emerald-green silk column dress with a neckline that commanded respect, paired with the Moretti emerald necklace that my grandmother had worn to presidential inaugurations. I held my chin high, radiating unassailable power. The headlines from our Lake Como wedding were still fresh; the media called us the "Sovereign Union of Wall Street."
As we walked up the red carpet, flashes popping like distant lightning, the murmurs parted before us. But halfway up the grand staircase beneath the iconic chandeliers, the crowd suddenly hushed.
Standing at the landing above us, surrounded by high-society sycophants who had shunned him just weeks ago, stood Carter Ward.
He looked thinner, sharper, his arrogance replaced by a frantic, manic gleam in his eyes. He wore an immaculate Tom Ford tuxedo, but he wasn't standing alone.
Clinging to his arm in an audacious scarlet gown was Evelyn Hayes, wearing diamond teardrops that caught the glare of the flashbulbs. And standing right beside them, towering over Carter like a puppet master holding the strings, was Marcus Sterling.
Marcus Sterling. The illegitimate titan of European hedge funds, Julian’s bitterest rival, and the man who had tried—and failed—to short the Moretti stock during our counter-offensive.
"Julian. Isabella," Marcus’s voice cut through the ambient chatter like a blade across silk. He descended two steps, his lips curling into an oily, predatory smirk. "You look radiant, Mrs. Vance. Marriage clearly agrees with you. It’s almost a shame that your honeymoon was cut so short."
"Marcus," Julian replied, his voice calm, resonant, and dripping with lethal authority. "I see you’ve taken up collecting garbage from the city’s curbs."
Carter stepped forward, his face flushing crimson with humiliation. "Watch your mouth, Julian! You think you won? You think taking my wife and my company makes you untouchable? You’re looking at the new board of directors for Sterling-Ward Capital. We just acquired forty percent of your debt covenants through Frankfurt!"
I took a slow, measured step past Julian, meeting Carter’s bloodshot eyes. The pity I felt for him was colder than hatred.
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"You really never learn, do you, Carter?" I whispered, loud enough for the society reporters behind us to catch every word. "You went from being a husband who couldn't keep his pants on to a lapdog on a German banker’s leash. Enjoy the champagne tonight. In federal court, they only serve tap water."
***
