Chapter 6 - The Council of Fifty Billionaires
By midnight, the superyacht Sovereign was surrounded by three federal cutters and four private tactical gunboats bearing the black viper pennant of the De Luca fleet.
Inside the grand salon, the fifty corporate elites sat in petrified silence beneath the chrome chandeliers, their hands resting flat on the mahogany tables while federal agents from the Department of Justice recorded their depositions.
Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance—Camilla’s distant cousin, who had flown in via Coast Guard helicopter from the federal building in Miami—stood across from Matteo in the private stateroom, reviewing the seized ledgers.
Vance adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles, his jaw clenched in cold, professional fury.
“The paper trail is absolute, Don Matteo,” Prosecutor Vance said, his voice deep and measured. “Antonio Vance operated an international fencing pipeline through the Port of Miami for twelve years. This ledger documents sixty-four stolen consignments from Antwerp, Rotterdam, and Cape Town.”
Vance looked across the desk at Maeve, his eyes softening with deep, humble respect.
“Your father was an honorable man, Donna Maeve. The maritime registry will issue an official restitution decree by sunrise. All eighty million dollars in seized Vance assets will be transferred directly into the De Luca Gemological Trust.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” Maeve replied calmly, her head held high.
“And Camille Vance?” Matteo asked, leaning back against the leather sofa.
“Felony assault with a deadly weapon, interstate transport of stolen cultural artifacts, and grand larceny,” the prosecutor stated with finality. “Her bail will be denied at the federal arraignment at nine o'clock. She is facing twenty-four years at the federal facility in Coleman.”
Vance gathered his files, offered a crisp nod to both of them, and stepped back out onto the deck.
Matteo rose from the sofa, walking over to where Maeve sat by the panoramic window overlooking the dark bay.
He knelt down on one knee before her, taking her small, scarred hands into both of his massive palms.
His thumbs gently traced the faint calluses on her fingertips—the marks left by thousands of hours spent holding grinding wheels and polishing laps.
“You hid yourself in that basement for three years, Maeve,” Matteo murmured softly, his voice thick with deep, unyielding devotion. “You let them think you were just a cleaner with a chisel.”
Maeve smiled—a radiant, breathtaking smile that lit up her hazel eyes—and reached out to touch the scar along his jawline.
“I didn't care about their galas, Matteo,” she whispered. “I only wanted to finish the tiara. I wanted to hold the ruby that my father died trying to protect.”
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“And now it’s home,” Matteo said, leaning forward to press his forehead gently against hers. “And so are you.”
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