Chapter 3 - The Forged Will and the Stolen Crown
By noon the following day, the financial world of Ravenport had been turned upside down.
From the safety of Claire’s apartment, Adrian sat in front of a high-resolution monitor streaming the live press conference being broadcast from the marble lobby of the Moretti Maritime Tower.
On the screen stood Elena, draped in designer black mourning attire, her eyes masked behind oversized dark sunglasses. Standing half a step behind her, impeccably tailored in a double-breasted navy suit, was Marcus Vale.
A swarm of journalists held up microphones as Marcus cleared his throat and stepped to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, esteemed shareholders,” Marcus began, his tone a masterclass in practiced grief. “Yesterday, we laid to rest a visionary, a leader, and to many of us—especially myself and his beloved widow, Elena—a brother and a soulmate.”
Adrian leaned closer to the screen, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched.
“In accordance with Adrian Moretti’s final testament,” Marcus continued, resting a comforting hand on Elena’s trembling shoulder, “the totality of his voting shares in Moretti Shipping and Logistics will be transferred directly to Mrs. Elena Moretti. Furthermore, by unanimous vote of the board of directors this morning, I have accepted the position of Chief Executive Officer and Chairman.”
A reporter shouted from the front row: “Mr. Vale! What about the rumors regarding federal investigations into undocumented cargo containers at Pier Nine?”
Marcus smiled thinly, a look of effortless superiority. “Those rumors were baseless fabrications aimed at tarnishing Adrian’s legacy. As my first official act as CEO, Moretti Shipping will be partnering with the Apex Maritime Conglomerate to streamline our international trade routes. The future of this harbor is secure.”
Claire leaned over Adrian’s shoulder, pointing at the bottom of the screen. “Apex Conglomerate isn't a shipping company. It’s an offshore front owned by Viktor Cruz—the head of the South Atlantic syndicate. Marcus is handing the entire harbor to the cartel.”
“Not the entire harbor,” Adrian said, his voice ice-cold. “Just the keys he thinks he owns.”
“What’s the move?” Claire asked. “We take this to the FBI? We have the tampered toxicology reports, the call logs—”
“The FBI in this district reports to Judge Vance,” Adrian interrupted. “Vance plays poker with Marcus every Tuesday night at the Ravenport Yacht Club. The moment we walk into a federal building, Marcus gets a phone call, and you end up at the bottom of a canal with two in the back of your head.”
He turned to face her.
“When a man tries to bury you alive, you don't call the police. You dismantle his life piece by piece until he begs for the dirt back.”
“You need money,” Claire pointed out. “Your personal accounts were frozen the second the death certificate was filed. Elena has control of the primary estate.”
Adrian gave a slow, dangerous smile—the first smile Claire had seen on his face.
“My father spent forty years in this city, Claire. He never trusted banks, and he never trusted paper wills. He taught me that a real boss keeps three lives: the life the public sees, the life his family knows, and the life buried beneath the concrete.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, tarnished silver key he had carried inside the lining of his belt—the one item Marcus’s men had missed when stripping his personal effects.
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“Where does that go?” Claire asked.
“To the basement of the old Saint Jude Foundry at Dock Fourteen,” Adrian replied. “Call an unlicensed cab. It’s time I collected my inheritance.”
