My uncle told me I was being shipped off to New Jersey to serve a mandatory alliance contract with a veteran syndicate partner named Gabe DeLuca.
The cold resolve I felt at the park hardened into a plan. Vic’s pledge of the docklands as collateral was a desperate gamble, but also his biggest mistake. He had put my inheritance, and Moretti’s interest, on a collision course.
Julian drove me back to Newark, directly to Marcus Devlin’s cluttered office. Devlin looked up, startled, as we entered. He was sweating, even in the air-conditioned room, clearly still rattled from our last visit.
“You again?” Devlin stammered, adjusting his glasses. “Vic’s furious about the $450,000. He called me a half-wit. Says he’ll have me scrubbing toilets for Christmas.”
“He’ll be doing more than that if he keeps pulling stunts like pledging invalid collateral,” I said, tossing the documents Maya had given me onto his desk. “Read this. Specifically, the part about the Ross Dockland Estate.”
Devlin picked up the papers, his eyes widening as he read the loan agreement and the forged power of attorney. “He pledged the docklands? But that’s… that’s Leo’s inheritance. It’s not fully his to pledge.”
“Exactly,” I confirmed. “Now, I need you to file an amended valuation report. Immediately. Send it directly to Don Moretti’s chief financial auditor.”
Devlin gulped. “An amended report? On what grounds? What do I say?”
“You’ll state that the Ross Dockland Estate, while valued at $14 million, is currently encumbered by significant historic syndicate tax liabilities,” I instructed, my voice unwavering. “Specifically, eight million dollars in unpaid taxes, going back over twenty years.”
Devlin’s jaw dropped. “Eight million? Where did that come from?”
I opened Great-Aunt Sofia’s 1998 ledger. “From here. The systematic skimming Vic’s been doing from Moretti’s profits. These are the original entries. The master codes in the margins prove it was Don Moretti’s money that was being siphoned off, effectively creating an undeclared, unpaid syndicate tax on the land itself.”
I placed the ancient ledger next to the modern loan documents. The juxtaposition of old ink and new print was stark.
“You’re going to use this ledger as the basis for the ‘historic liabilities’,” I continued. “You’ll say the property has been subject to continuous, undeclared income generation by an unapproved capo, making it a liability to the Commission.”
Devlin’s hand trembled as he reached for the ledger. “If I send this to Moretti’s auditor, Vic will know I flipped on him. He’ll kill me.”
“And if you don’t,” Julian interjected, his voice low and menacing, “when Moretti’s auditors find out about this rigged collateral, they’ll assume you were complicit in the fraud. And Moretti’s version of ‘killed’ is a lot more painful than Vic’s.”
Devlin’s eyes darted between me, Julian, and the ancient ledger. His mercenary nature, always calculating self-preservation, kicked in.
“Okay,” he whispered, wiping his brow. “Okay. What do I need to do?”
I dictated the key phrases for the amended report, ensuring it sounded official, technical, and full of the kind of financial jargon that would immediately flag it for Moretti’s auditors. I had him cross-reference the dockland property identification numbers with specific entries and annotations in the 1998 ledger.
Within an hour, Devlin had drafted and submitted the report. He sent it through the syndicate’s secure channels, a digital package of financial dynamite aimed directly at Vic Ross.
“This is going to trigger an automatic emergency syndicate audit on Vic’s operations,” Devlin said, his voice shaky, as he clicked ‘send’. “Moretti’s people have zero tolerance for undeclared assets or encumbered collateral.”
“That’s the point,” I said, rising from his desk. “Vic just pledged fourteen million dollars of my future. Now, he’s going to find out that future comes with eight million dollars of his past.”
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