Chapter 8 - the reckoning in county
Forty-eight hours later, the rain returned to the city, drumming against the reinforced glass windows of the visitor’s terminal at the county correctional facility.
Richard Hale sat behind the thick acrylic partition, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit that hung loose around his diminished frame. In just two days, the polished, confident real estate broker had aged ten years. His hair was disheveled, his hands shook violently, and a dark bruise bloomed beneath his left eye—a quiet reminder from the cell block that his reputation had preceded him.
The heavy steel door on the visitor’s side clicked open.
Vincent Moretti walked in. He wore a charcoal-gray tailored suit, a pristine white shirt with the top button undone, and his long dark wool coat draped over his arm. He didn't pick up the plastic phone receiver immediately. He simply sat down on the steel stool, resting his hands on the counter, his dark eyes fixed on the man opposite him.
Richard grabbed the phone with both hands, pressing it against his ear, his voice trembling through the speaker.
"Vincent... Vincent, please," Richard begged, pressing his face close to the scratched plastic partition. "You have to get me moved to protective custody! You have to talk to the warden! The men in here... they know who I am. They know about the loans in Jersey City. They told me if the four million isn't in their offshore account by Friday, I won't make it to my preliminary hearing!"
Vincent picked up the receiver slowly, bringing it to his ear.
"The four million is already paid, Richard," Vincent said.
Richard blinked, stunned. A pathetic wave of relief washed across his face. "You... you paid it? Vincent, thank God! Thank God! I swear to you, I will sign over every property I own, I will give you every—"
"I didn't pay it to save you," Vincent interrupted, his voice smooth, cold, and final. "I bought the note from your creditors yesterday morning. Which means you don't owe four million to the street anymore. You owe it to me."
Richard froze. The blood drained from his face until he looked like a corpse in orange cloth.
"The trust fund Emily inherited will remain untouched," Vincent continued, each word delivered with surgical precision. "Her grandfather’s estate has already been restructured under Noah’s name, with Claire Bennett and a court-appointed fiduciary serving as independent guardians until he turns twenty-five. Neither you, nor Diane, nor any branch of your bloodline will ever see a single cent."
"Vincent... please..." Richard whispered, tears tracking down through the stubble on his cheeks. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Nothing," Vincent said quietly. "I am a law-abiding citizen, Richard. I drive cars. The state of New York is going to try you for attempted murder and child endangerment. With the toxicology reports, the security footage, and Diane’s signed confession, you’re looking at twenty-five years without the possibility of parole."
Vincent leaned in slightly, his eyes boring into Richard’s soul.
"And every single day of those twenty-five years," Vincent murmured, "you will remember that the man whose child you tried to poison owns every single guard, every single delivery truck, and every single meal served in this facility. You will live a very long, very quiet, very miserable life."
May you like
Vincent hung up the phone.
He stood up, adjusted his coat over his arm, and walked toward the steel exit door without looking back. Behind the acrylic partition, Richard began to scream, slamming his fists against the glass, but the heavy door clicked shut, cutting off the sound completely.
