Chapter 5 - The Reading of the Will
The twentieth floor of the Moretti Tower on Market Street was a monument to corporate power. Wall-to-wall glass overlooked the gray sprawl of Newark and the distant silhouette of the Manhattan skyline.
Inside the executive boardroom, twelve men and two women sat around an oval table of polished African wenge wood. These were the senior executives and division heads of Moretti Logistics. At the head of the table sat Arthur Pendelton, the family’s chief legal counsel for thirty years—a gaunt man with thinning silver hair and thick wire-rimmed glasses.
Vanessa sat to his right, her black veil now pushed back over her dark hair, revealing pale skin and red lipstick. Julian Vance sat three seats down on the opposite side, tapping a gold pen against a leather-bound folder.
I stood in the adjacent private vestibule behind a two-way mirrored glass wall, flanked by Marcus and two armed guards. In the shadows beside me stood Dante.
He was wearing an overcoat over his dark suit, his bandaged forehead largely concealed by the low brim of a fedora. His face was entirely devoid of expression, his breathing measured and slow.
Through the hidden speakers in the ceiling, the audio from the boardroom came through with crystalline clarity.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Pendelton began, clearing his throat and tapping a stack of legal documents against the table. "We are gathered under tragic and sudden circumstances. Under standard corporate bylaws, the sudden vacancy of the Chief Executive Officer position necessitates an immediate interim appointment to ensure our shipping licenses and international credit facilities remain operational."
"We all share in the family's profound grief," Vance spoke up, leaning forward with an earnest expression. "Dante Moretti was a visionary. But the port authorities in New York and Rotterdam will not pause commerce for our mourning. We have forty vessels entering the channel this week. We need operational authority signed today."
Several board members nodded in solemn agreement.
"Quite right, Mr. Vance," Vanessa said softly, dabbing her nose with her handkerchief. "Dante spent his entire life building this company. As his widow, and his named primary beneficiary under the 2018 corporate charter, I am prepared to assume the burden of the interim chair. It is what Dante would have wanted."
Pendelton adjusted his glasses, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Mrs. Moretti, while you are indeed named in the standard marital trust, Dante executed a comprehensive codicil eighteen months ago following the corporate restructuring."
Vanessa’s expression flickered. Just for a fraction of a second, the sorrow slipped, replaced by an edge of sharp suspicion.
"A codicil?" she repeated. "Dante never mentioned a codicil to me."
"He was not required to," Pendelton stated plainly. "Under the terms of the revised estate plan, in the event of Dante’s sudden demise under unverified or non-natural circumstances, an emergency audit of all division holdings is triggered automatically before any transfer of shares or proxy voting rights can occur."
Vance’s pen stopped tapping. He sat up straight. "Unverified circumstances? Mr. Pendelton, this was a tragic traffic accident on a mountain road during a rainstorm. The state police have already closed the inquiry."
"Have they?" a new voice echoed through the boardroom.
It didn't come from Pendelton.
The double doors at the far end of the boardroom clicked. The heavy brass handles turned, and the doors swung open with a resounding thud.
The room froze.
Dante Moretti stepped over the threshold.
He didn't rush. He walked with a slow, deliberate cadence, leaning slightly on an ebony cane to compensate for his bruised ribs. Behind him, Marcus and I stepped into the room, flanked by two plainclothes state police investigators who had been waiting in the private corridor.
A collective gasp swept through the executives. Two board members knocked their chairs backward as they scrambled to their feet.
"Jesus Christ..." Vance choked, his face draining of all color until he looked like a corpse himself.
Vanessa didn't scream. She didn't faint. She froze like a statue, her knuckles turning bone-white as she gripped the edge of the mahogany table. Her dark eyes bulged, staring at Dante as if a demon had crawled up through the parquet flooring.
"Dante?" she whispered, the sound strangled in her throat.
May you like
Dante stopped at the foot of the table, resting both hands on the head of his cane. He tilted his head slightly, studying his wife with cold, detached curiosity.
"You look disappointed, Vanessa," Dante said smoothly. "I thought you'd be overjoyed to see your husband returned from the dead."
