The steakhouse in Old Town Alexandria was discreet, its brass-and-dark-wood interior exuding an old-money quietness. At exactly nine, I was escorted past the main dining room, down a short corridor, to a private room at the back.
Victor Moretti was already seated at a round table, a single glass of amber liquid in front of him. He was older than I expected, with silver hair meticulously combed back, and eyes that seemed to take in everything without moving. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit, the kind that cost more than my annual salary.
He didn’t offer a hand, nor did he smile. He simply gestured to the chair opposite him.
“Ms. Driscoll,” he said, his voice low, almost a rumble. “Thank you for coming.”
“Mr. Moretti,” I replied, sitting down. I placed my small briefcase on the table beside me.
He waited, letting the silence stretch, evaluating me. I met his gaze, showing no fear, no hesitation. He wasn’t interested in emotions. He was interested in facts and efficiency.
“You have information regarding the De Witt campaign,” he stated, not a question.
“I do,” I confirmed. “And regarding the $4.2 million allocated for a ‘strategic economic development initiative’.”
His eyes, which had been fixed on me, now dropped to the briefcase. “You understand who you are speaking to.”
“I understand that the money Julian De Witt is attempting to divert belongs to your syndicate,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “And that you have a zero-tolerance policy for embezzlement and personal use of campaign capital.” Twist 9.
I opened the briefcase. I laid out the documents: Marcus’s flash drive, now printed into a concise binder of Julian’s secret communications and wire transfers. The detailed ledger of the offshore shell company, “Laurent Holdings LLC.” And finally, Dr. Bernstein’s signed affidavit, complete with the original lab work confirming Julian’s permanent sterility.
I pushed the stack of papers across the table. Moretti didn’t touch them immediately. His gaze swept over the titles, lingering on “MEDICAL AFFIDAVIT – DE WITT, JULIAN.”
“Julian De Witt is attempting to steal $4.2 million of syndicate funds,” I explained, my voice clinical, devoid of personal animosity. “He believes he is creating an off-books family legacy for his secret son, a child fathered by Genevieve Laurent.”
“However,” I continued, pointing to the medical affidavit. “Julian De Witt underwent a bilateral vasectomy eight years ago. He is medically infertile. The child Genevieve Laurent claims is his, cannot be.”
Moretti finally reached out, slowly picking up the medical affidavit. His eyes scanned the document, moving to the lab reports, then the doctor’s sworn statement. A muscle in his jaw twitched, the only visible sign of his reaction. He didn’t look angry, just intensely focused.
He put the affidavit down and picked up the financial records. He spent a long moment studying the detailed paper trail of the $4.2 million diversion, the fraudulent invoices, the offshore account numbers. He cross-referenced them with what Marcus had provided from Julian’s own communications.
“He’s being played,” I finished simply. “Not only is he stealing from you, but he’s doing it to finance a rival’s child, under the delusion that it’s his own heir.”
Moretti looked up from the documents. His expression was unreadable, but the silence in the room was absolute. He didn’t question my veracity. He didn’t ask about my motives. He simply absorbed the information, processing every detail.
“These files,” he said, his voice a low command. “They remain with me.”
“Understood,” I replied.
He nodded once, a curt, final movement. “Thank you for your candor, Ms. Driscoll.”
The meeting was over. There was no theatrical pronouncement, no dramatic exit. Just the quiet understanding that I had delivered the necessary information, and he would now act. I gathered my empty briefcase, leaving behind the damning proof. The fate of Julian De Witt was no longer in my hands.
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