Chapter 12
The Final Confession
One month later, the federal penitentiary in upstate New York was cold, grey, and suffocating.
I sat across from Dominic Pierce in the secure visitation booth, separated by a thick pane of ballistic glass.
Dominic wore a bright orange jumpsuit.
His hair was uncombed, his cheeks hollow, his arrogance completely stripped away by the harsh reality of four concrete walls.
He picked up the heavy telephone receiver with trembling fingers.
I picked up mine on the other side.
“You look well, Clara,” Dominic rasped through the static-filled intercom.
“Prison suits your complexion,” I replied calmly.
“What do you want?” he spat, his old venom flaring up for a fraction of a second.
“I just wanted to show you something before I leave for good,” I said.
I held up a crisp, freshly printed legal deed against the glass.
It was the title to his prized Manhattan penthouse—now officially seized and converted into a charitable foundation for victims of corporate fraud.
Dominic stared at the paper.
His jaw worked silently.
“You took everything,” he whispered, a tear finally cutting a clean path down his dusty cheek.
“No, Dominic,” I corrected him softly.
“I just took back what was always mine.”
I hung up the receiver.
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I didn't look back as I stood up and walked out of the visitation room.
The heavy steel door swung shut behind me with a solid, echoing thud.
