Chapter 6 - The Traitor’s Golden Alibi
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At 8:00 AM the following morning, the Long Island estate was bathed in crisp, deceptive autumn sunshine.
Marco Santoro strode into the formal dining room, wearing his tailored suit, carrying a leather portfolio containing the fabricated patrol reports. He expected to find me drinking black coffee alone, brooding over business ledgers as I had done for fourteen months.
Instead, the dining table was set for five.
Sitting at the table were Olivia, Sophie, and Nora, eating warm blueberry pancakes, dressed in bright pastel dresses that Isabelle had picked out before her death.
Beside them stood Grace, pouring fresh orange juice from a crystal pitcher.
Marco paused in the doorway, his eyes narrowing with a flash of instinctive suspicion.
“Well, well,” Marco said, forcing a jovial, paternal tone as he walked toward the table. “Look at this feast. The little princesses are eating breakfast with their father for once.”
He stepped behind Sophie’s chair, reaching his hand out to touch her shoulder.
CLINK.
I set my silver fork down on the porcelain plate.
“Do not touch my daughter, Marco,” I said.
The words were spoken quietly, but the room went completely breathless.
Marco froze, his hand hovering in mid-air. He let out a dry, condescending chuckle. “Dominic? Did I cross a line? I was just greeting my goddaughter.”
“Your goddaughter knows who killed her mother, Marco,” I replied, looking directly into his cold, gray eyes.
Marco’s smile vanished in a fraction of a second. His hand slowly dropped to his side, his fingers inching toward the lapel of his jacket where his Glock was holstered.
“Dominic... you’re exhausted,” Marco said, his voice dropping into a low, patronizing rasp. “You’ve been listening to the hysterical theories of a common housekeeper. You know I was at the Brooklyn freight office when Isabelle was attacked. I have sixteen alibi witnesses.”
“Your alibi witnesses were paid eighty thousand dollars each through Apex Maritime in Grand Cayman, Marco,” Grace spoke up, her voice ringing across the dining room with absolute authority.
Marco snapped his head toward Grace, his face flushing with venomous shock. “Shut your mouth, you little maid! Before I have you buried under the docks!”
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“Her name is Grace Vance, Marco,” I announced, rising slowly from my chair, towering over the table like an immovable mountain. “Her father was Captain Thomas Vance. The man you ran off the road because he found the ballistic match for your unregistered service weapon.”
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