Chapter 42 - The Council of Rome
By midnight, the grand salon of Villa Medici was converted into an international command center. Antique crystal chandeliers illuminated Renaissance tapestries, but the center of the vast chamber was dominated by three high-speed encrypted satellite terminals linking us directly to our legal headquarters on State Street in Boston and our maritime brokers in Genoa.
Uncle Vincenzo, who had flown to Rome two days earlier to indulge his appetite for authentic Roman carbonara, sat in a velvet high-backed armchair near the marble fireplace. He held a crystal tumbler of aged grappa, his weathered face carved into deep, stormy lines as he glared at the financial spreadsheets displayed across the main monitor.
"The old snake!" Vincenzo barked, slamming his glass onto the marble side table with enough force to make the ice rattle. "Even from the grave, Arthur Barrett tries to spit poison into our house! If the boys accept those shares, they inherit sixty million dollars in frozen maritime assets and three hundred million in uncollateralized European debt! It’s a poisoned chalice meant to drag the Moretti name through international bankruptcy courts!"
"We aren't going to let them accept it, Vincenzo," Elena said firmly, pacing before the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the illuminated dome of St. Peter’s. She had traded her emerald silk gown for a crisp white cotton shirt and dark trousers, looking every inch the fierce, brilliant matriarch who had outmaneuvered entire syndicates. "A seven-year-old child cannot legally consent to the execution of a trust without guardian approval. Dominic and I will simply sign a formal rejection of the bequest. The shares will default to the federal bankruptcy trustee, and Barrett’s creditors can fight over the scraps."
"It's not that simple, Elena," our chief international counsel, Marcus Wright, spoke via the secure Boston video link. His face appeared pixelated on the high-definition display, surrounded by stacks of maritime legal codes. "Arthur Barrett’s attorneys were thorough. The trust was incorporated under Panamanian maritime law with a secondary anchor in the Canton of Zurich. Under the specific bylaws of the North Atlantic Syndicate, if the designated heirs renounce their shares, the voting control automatically defaults to the senior surviving direct kin—which is Sloane Barrett. And if Sloane gains voting control, she can authorize the liquidation of the European shipping hubs to post her federal bail and recruit private military contractors to contest our Boston port leases."
A suffocating silence descended over the salon. The trap was masterfully designed. If our sons accepted the shares, they were saddled with predatory international debt and target marks on their backs. If we rejected the inheritance on their behalf, Sloane walked out of prison on a technicality, re-armed with hundreds of millions in corporate leverage to reignite a bloody turf war on our home soil.
"So we don't reject it," a small, steady voice broke through the tension.
Every head in the room turned toward the arched entrance of the salon.
Standing in the doorway, dressed in their matching striped flannel pajamas with their hair neatly brushed, were Leo, Dante, Marco, and Mateo. They had slipped out of their bedroom down the marble corridor without making a sound—a quiet, synchronized infiltration that none of our perimeter guards had detected.
Leo stepped forward, his bare feet silent on the polished terrazzo floor. He walked straight to the long conference table, tilted his head at that unmistakable fifteen-degree angle, and rested his small palms flat against the mahogany surface.
"Leo," I said, my voice softening as I moved toward him. "You and your brothers should be asleep. This is grown-up business."
"We heard Uncle Vincenzo shouting from our room, Dad," Leo said, his hazel eyes completely clear, carrying the calm, analytical steel that had always set him apart. "And Mateo checked the Boston financial headlines on his tablet before bed. Barrett is dead. His company is broken."
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"And you think you have an opinion on international maritime bankruptcy, kiddo?" Vincenzo asked, his gruff voice softening as a faint, affectionate smirk touched his lips.
"We don't need an opinion on bankruptcy, Uncle Vincenzo," Mateo piped up from behind Leo, crossing his arms with identical certainty. "We need a debt-for-equity restructuring."
