You married a dying 74-year-old woman for five thousand dollars cash, Julian, my dockworker friends laughed at the diner in Newark, shaking their heads. "You're a fake husband to an old lady just...
The tinted windows of the black SUV reflected the muddy waters of the Passaic River, obscuring the world outside. Marcus DeLuca, Garra’s enforcer, had gripped my arm outside Felix Rinaldi’s office, steering me into the back seat.
Now, I sat across from Victor Garra. He smelled of expensive cologne and old cigar smoke.
A smaller, nervous man with thinning hair sat beside him. This was Arlo Gable, the notary. His eyes darted between Garra and me, his hands twisting a leather-bound folio.
“Mr. Driscoll,” Garra said, his voice smooth, like oil. “A pleasure, though I’m sure Felix Rinaldi filled you with fairy tales about Nora Krol.”
My jaw tightened. “She left me her company. Apex Logistics.”
Garra chuckled, a low, dismissive sound that scraped against my nerves. “Apex Logistics has been in the Garra family’s care for three decades. Nora was an old woman, Julian. Confused.”
He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “You married her for five thousand dollars, didn’t you? A sad, pathetic little arrangement for a dying old woman.”
Gable cleared his throat, pushing a stack of stapled papers across the console. “This is a prenuptial waiver, Mr. Driscoll. Signed by you.”
I looked at the signature. It was a scrawl, barely legible. My heart hammered against my ribs. “I’ve never seen this before.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Garra said, waving a hand. “It was the night of your brother Leo’s funeral. Six months ago.”
A chill snaked up my spine. That night was a blur of grief and whiskey. My younger brother, Leo, gone at twenty-four, swallowed by gambling debts to men like Garra. I’d drunk until the world went quiet.
“You were… distraught,” Gable muttered, not meeting my eyes. “Barely coherent. But you put your mark on it.”
Garra nodded slowly. “Your grief, Julian. It broke your mind. You thought you were helping an old lady, and you signed away any claim you might have had to her assets. It’s perfectly legal.”
He watched me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. The river outside was still, reflecting the grey sky.
“You misremember the timeline,” Garra continued, his voice a soft, hypnotic rhythm. “You think this windfall is real because you *want* it to be. Because you’re desperate after Leo’s debts.”
I felt a cold sweat on my forehead. Could I have? Could the pain, the guilt over Leo’s death, have twisted my memory? The funeral had been a dark fog. I had been a wreck.
“Nora was sharp as a tack,” I forced out, recalling her clear eyes, her firm grip.
“Sharp in her final lucid moments, perhaps,” Garra conceded, shrugging. “But old age takes its toll. And grief, Julian, can play terrible tricks on the mind.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. The silence in the SUV was thick, suffocating.
“The marriage itself,” Gable interjected nervously, “was still valid, technically. For tax purposes. But your claim to the estate was nullified by this waiver.”
Garra settled back in his seat, a look of triumph barely concealed. “Apex Logistics belongs to the Garra family. It always has. Nora was just holding it for us.”
He pointed a finger at me. “Walk away from this, Julian. Forget about Apex. Forget about Nora. Or you’ll find yourself remembering things you wish you hadn’t.”
DeLuca opened the door, a silent command. I stumbled out of the SUV, the cold air hitting me like a physical blow. The papers Gable had given me felt heavy in my hand, an anchor pulling me down. I walked back to my small apartment, the image of my own shaky signature blurring with the memory of Leo’s pale face, my mind racing, desperately trying to reconstruct a night I wished I could forget. Had my grief truly led me to sign away my rights, leaving me with nothing but a phantom marriage and the mocking laughter of my friends echoing in my ears?
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