Chapter 5 - A Boy in the Sovereign’s ShadowAt 2:00 AM, the oceanfront estate had entered a state of complete, silent mobilization.
Sixty armored tactical transports bearing the trident crest of the Moretti fleet were dispatched across Atlantic City, securing the casino vaults, the private docks at Brigantine, and the shipping terminals along the inlet.
In the grand dining hall, a massive fire of split hickory roared in the limestone hearth, casting a warm amber glow across the forty-foot mahogany table.
Toby sat at the head of the table beside his mother, wearing a tailored charcoal wool coat that had been altered for him by the estate’s master tailor, happily eating warm sourdough rolls and sliced peaches while reviewing the blueprints for the new boardwalk recreation centers.
I sat beside them, wearing a bespoke three-piece black tuxedo, a crystal tumbler of vintage scotch resting on the linen, feeling the steady, rhythmic pulse of life surging through both of my legs.
Frank Russo strode into the hall, holding an encrypted satellite tablet displaying live financial transfers.
“Report, Frank,” I commanded softly.
“The federal task force executed the seizure warrants on Silvio’s private holdings twenty minutes ago, boss,” Frank reported with a broad, savage grin. “Three hundred and twenty million dollars in commercial casino leases, eighty luxury hotels, and four private banking facilities in Grand Cayman.”
He placed the tablet on the table before Elena.
“Under federal restitution protocols, seventy percent of the recovered capital—over two hundred and twenty million dollars—has been transferred directly into the newly chartered Sofia and Elena Corelli Foundation for Hospitality Workers.”
Elena looked at the screen, her breath catching in her throat as she touched the glowing numbers.
“Dante... two hundred and twenty million dollars? That is more than the entire municipal budget of the South Ward!”
“It belongs to your family, Elena,” I murmured, leaning forward, resting my hand over hers. “It belongs to the people who washed the towels while Silvio drank champagne. From this day forward, your son is the recognized heir to the Moretti-Corelli Maritime Trust.”
Toby looked up from his plate, his slate-gray eyes wide.
“Does that mean I don't have to wash the table napkins anymore, Uncle Dante?”
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A low, deep laugh tore from my chest—a sound so rich, so full of genuine life that the guards stationed along the walls smiled to themselves.
“You will never wash a napkin again, Toby,” I smiled, reaching over to ruffle his dark hair. “You are the boy who woke the Emperor.”
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