Noah sat beside me at the massive mahogany conference table, his arms crossed over his chest, watching his biological father like a specimen under glass.
Across from us sat Vincent, his eyes hollowed out, staring down at an open leather briefcase overflowing with bank transcripts.
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Sophia sat in the far corner of the room on a velvet settee, clutching an empty crystal glass, her knuckles bloodless and trembling.
Frank Vance, Vincent’s chief legal counsel and personal fixer for thirty years, entered the room carrying a heavy manila file folder.
“The domestic wire logs are complete, Vincent,” Frank said quietly, avoiding looking at Sophia sitting in the corner.
“Read them aloud, Frank,” Vincent commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl that shook the crystal glasses on the sideboard.
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“Starting in November eighteen years ago, twenty-five thousand dollars was wired on the first of every month from the Moretti Family Asset Fund,” Frank began.
