THE DEVILED EGGS, THE VOICEMAIL, AND THE RED SATIN DRESS

"He's invoking the federal writ of possession," Marco said, his hand resting instinctively on his holster. "Shall I lock down the perimeter guards, Boss? We can hold the gates for an hour, but if those state vehicles have a federal warrant—"

"No," Luca interrupted, his voice dropping into that cold, absolute authority that brooks no argument. "Don't fire a shot, Marco. If you raise a weapon against federal marshals on this property, Dominic wins the entire war before he even steps foot on the lawn."

Luca turned back to the desk, sliding the old 1984 trust document into his breast pocket alongside his pocket watch.

"Let him in," Luca said.

Anthony looked alarmed. "Dad, you can't just let him walk in here and take the house!"

"He's not taking anything until he looks me in the eye," Luca replied, walking toward the double doors of the study with the measured, terrifying grace of a predator preparing to meet an old rival. "Anthony, stay here with your mother. Marco, come with me to the foyer."

As Luca and Marco strode down the long, high-ceilinged hallway toward the grand entrance, Anthony grabbed my arm.

"Mom, this is insane," Anthony whispered, his voice tense. "Uncle Dominic has hated Dad since they were kids. If he gets control of the estate, he'll destroy everything Dad built."

"Your father isn't going to let that happen, Anthony," I said, though my own heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Come on. We're going to the second-floor landing. We need to hear what he has to say."

We hurried up the grand staircase, staying back in the shadows of the arched balcony that overlooked the marble foyer below.

The heavy front doors swung open with a slow, dramatic creak.

Dominic Moretti stepped across the threshold.

He looked remarkably like Luca—the same tall, commanding posture, the same dark eyes, though Dominic’s hair was completely silver and his face bore a thin, faint scar running from the corner of his left lip down toward his chin—a souvenir from a street fight we’d all tried to forget back in the seventies.

He wasn't alone. Flanking him were two men in federal marshal windbreakers, holding thick manila document portfolios, and trailing a few paces behind them was a visibly shaken Vanessa Bellini, carrying her designer handbag like a shield.

Luca stood at the foot of the grand staircase, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets.

"It's been a long time, Dominic," Luca said, his voice echoing off the marble pillars. "I hear Zurich is lovely this time of year."

Dominic stopped halfway across the foyer. He smiled, but his eyes remained as cold as winter ice.

"It's good to be home, brother," Dominic replied, his voice smooth, cultured, and dripping with thinly veiled malice. "Though I must say, you've let the landscaping go a bit. Too many weeds on the southern acreage."

"Get to the point," Luca said, stepping forward. "You're trespassing on private property under false pretenses, and your little proxy friend over there has already exhausted her welcome."

Dominic glanced back at Vanessa, who shrank away from his gaze, her arrogant demeanor completely shattered.

"Vanessa was merely an investment, Luca," Dominic said smoothly. "A very expensive, very dramatic investment, I'll grant you. But she served her purpose. She helped me secure the signatures needed to activate the 1984 land trust addendum."

Dominic pulled a folded document from his inside pocket—an exact duplicate of the parchment trust we had just looked at in the study—and held it up for the federal marshals to see.

"According to federal probate law," Dominic announced loudly, pitching his voice so it echoed through the entire house, "upon the legal dissolution of marriage and the abandonment of continuous familial stewardship, the entirety of the Moretti estate reverts to the secondary trustee."