Chapter 3 - The Summons and The Smirk
By noon the following day, the Valeri headquarters in Long Island City was abuzz with whispered triumph.
I arrived unannounced. I wore an emerald-green tailored suit, Cartier diamonds at my throat, and four-inch Louboutin heels that clicked with rhythmic authority across the polished marble lobby. The two armed guards stationed at the heavy glass doors—men who usually lowered their heads when I walked past—exchanged nervous glances.
“Mrs. Valeri,” the senior guard stammered, scrambling to press the security override. “Mr. Valeri is in a private conference on the eighth floor.”
“I know,” I said coldly, walking straight past him.
When I stepped out of the elevator onto the executive floor, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Clerks and bookkeepers froze behind their monitors. In the central boardroom, through the frosted glass, I could hear the muffled sound of Ronan’s booming laughter.
I didn’t knock. I pushed the heavy oak doors open and stepped inside.
The room fell instantly silent.
Ronan sat at the head of the mahogany conference table, his tie loosened, a Montecristo cigar smoldering in an ashtray. To his right sat his primary legal counsel, Harold Finch, a sleazy, high-priced fixer who smelled of cheap cologne and expensive bribes. And beside Ronan, sitting with her legs crossed and a delicate porcelain teacup in her hand, was Odette Mercer.
She was wearing a pastel-pink knit dress that clung tightly to her belly, accentuating her condition. When she saw me, her lips curved into a tiny, mocking smirk—the look of a woman who believed she had evicted the queen from the castle.
“Celeste,” Ronan said, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t stand. He didn’t apologize. “I told you we would handle our affairs through counsel. Finch was just drafting the separation agreement.”
“I save you the trouble of delivering it to my house,” I said, walking to the foot of the table. I pulled out a leather chair and sat down, crossing my legs with supreme poise. “I assume the settlement remains the same? Five million and the drafty house in Oyster Bay?”
Finch cleared his throat, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. “Mrs. Valeri, given the circumstances and Mr. Valeri’s desire for an amicable transition, we believe this offer is extraordinarily generous. You have no biological children with Mr. Valeri. The court would acknowledge that the substantial assets of the syndicate were generated through Mr. Valeri’s direct enterprise.”
“Is that what the court would acknowledge, Finch?” I tilted my head, looking at the lawyer like he was an insect on a pin. “Fascinating.”
Odette set her teacup down with an exaggerated, delicate sigh. “Celeste, really. Why make this ugly? Ronan has responsibilities now. He has a real family to protect. You’ve had ten years of luxury, jewelry, and private jets. Isn't it time you stepped aside gracefully? A woman your age shouldn't be so bitter.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Finch looked horrified that she had spoken. Ronan, however, merely watched me with an arrogant smirk, clearly pleased by his young mistress’s boldness.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t lunge across the table. I simply looked at Odette, letting my gaze drift slowly from her eyes, down to her designer bag, and finally to her belly.
“A woman my age knows the difference between an asset and a rental, Odette,” I said smoothly. “You think you’re holding Ronan’s future inside you. But you haven't realized that the moment a man trades his loyalty for a younger body, he announces to everyone in his circle that his word is worthless. What makes you think you won’t be replaced the second you develop stretch marks?”
Odette’s face flushed crimson. “Ronan loves me! He loves our son!”
“Enough,” Ronan barked, slamming his palm onto the table. The teacups rattled. He stood up, towering over the room, the terrifying aura of a mafia Don flaring to life. “You don’t come into my boardroom and disrespect the mother of my child, Celeste. Sign the preliminary separation agreement today, or I will withdraw the five million and leave you with nothing. Let’s see how far your pride takes you when you can’t pay your credit card bills.”
Finch slid a manila folder down the length of the polished wood. It stopped an inch from my hands.
I didn’t even look at it.
“You’re giving me an ultimatum, Ronan?” I asked softly.
“I’m giving you a reality check,” Ronan sneered. “You think because your father was Arthur Vance you’re untouchable? Your father is dead. His friends are dead or retired. This city belongs to the Valeri family now. Sign the paper.”
I reached into my handbag. Odette watched eagerly, expecting a pen.
Instead, I pulled out my phone, dialed a three-digit extension, and put it on speaker.
A cool, elderly voice answered on the first ring. “*Dominic Shaw speaking.*”
Finch went dead pale. His hands visibly shook. “Shaw? Dominic Shaw is dead... he retired to Switzerland seven years ago...”
“*Good afternoon, Harold,*” Dominic’s voice crackled through the speaker, crisp and lethal. “*I see you are attempting to execute an illegal transfer of assets belonging to Sovereign Capital Group. I am calling from the compliance office of the Bank of International Settlements in Zurich.*”
Ronan frowned, looking between Finch and the phone. “What the hell is this?”
“*Mr. Valeri,*” Dominic continued, “*pursuant to the covenants established by Arthur Vance in the master charter of 2014, your attempt to divert syndicate logistics revenue to an unauthorized third party constitutes an irremediable breach of trust. As of two minutes ago, your executive signature has been revoked across all sixty-four accounts tied to the Brooklyn and Manhattan shipping corridors.*”
Ronan let out an angry, disbelieving bark of laughter. “You’re bluffing. My accounts are domestic. Finch controls the trust!”
“Check your terminal, Finch,” I said gently.
Finch was already typing frantically on his laptop. The color drained from his face until he looked like a walking corpse. He swallowed hard, looking up at Ronan with terror in his eyes.
“Ronan...” Finch’s voice cracked. “The main payroll account for the longshoremen... it’s locked. The offshore liquidity line in Grand Cayman... the balance reads zero.”
“What?!” Ronan roared, lunging toward Finch’s screen.
“It’s not zero, darling,” I said, rising gracefully from my chair and smoothing the front of my emerald jacket. “It’s just in my name now.”
I looked over at Odette, whose smug smile had disintegrated into absolute panic.
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“Keep the tea, Odette,” I whispered. “You’re going to need something warm to drink when Ronan realizes he can’t even afford the hospital bill for your delivery.”
***
