Chapter 8: The Boardroom
Veronica arrived at eight fifteen.
Grace met her in the corridor and told her the attending physician had left a note about a change in my medication schedule.
Veronica came into the room and stood at my bedside for exactly four minutes, looking at a man she believed was unconscious, before her phone rang and she stepped into the corridor to take the call.
By eight twenty-two, I was dressed.
Dr.
Haan had left a dark suit hanging in the bathroom closet — my own, retrieved from the penthouse by someone he trusted.
My ribs were wrapped tight.
Every breath was a negotiation.
I moved slowly, buttoned the jacket, and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.
I looked like a man who had been in a hospital for five days.
Which was accurate.
I also looked like Dominic Moretti.
Which was what mattered.
Marco was waiting in the service corridor with a car.
We were at the Moretti Group building on Park Avenue by nine thirty.
Claire Ashworth was already in the lobby, two associates beside her, a case file under her arm.
"You look terrible," she said.
"Dr.
Haan said the same thing."
"He's right." She fell into step beside me.
"I pulled the Halcyon Bridge records last night.
There's more than you know."
"Tell me in the elevator."
"The company wasn't just used to challenge your father's estate," she said as the doors closed.
"It was used to quietly acquire a four-percent stake in the Moretti Group eighteen months ago.
Nominee shareholders.
Buried in a restructuring filing." She looked at me.
"Anthony filed that restructuring."
Four percent.
Enough to influence a board vote.
Not enough to control one — unless the vote was close.
"How many board members does Anthony have?" I asked.
"I count three who've received consulting fees from Halcyon Bridge subsidiaries in the past two years." She paused.
"Paid through a second company.
A clean one.
Nothing traceable on the surface."
"But you traced it."
"I had a very motivated night." The elevator opened.
"Dominic.
When you walk in there, they're going to try to remove you.
Anthony will claim you're not competent to chair the meeting.
He has a doctor's letter prepared — I heard from one of the associates."
"Dr.
P.
Voss," I said.
She stopped walking.
"How did you know that?"
"Because Voss has been part of this for a long time." I looked down the corridor toward the boardroom doors.
"Is he here?"
"He was in the building twenty minutes ago.
I don't know if he's still here."
"Find out." I handed her a folded sheet from my jacket pocket.
"And give this to Marco when you see him.
He'll know what to do with it."
She took it without looking at it and moved toward the side corridor.
I walked to the boardroom doors and pushed them open.
The room went silent.
There were eleven people at the table.
Anthony was at the far end, mid-sentence, a coffee cup halfway to his mouth.
Beside him sat a man I didn't recognize — late forties, grey suit, the careful stillness of someone who had been told to stay quiet and observe.
That would be Roland.
Anthony's coffee cup went back to the table without reaching his mouth.
"Dominic," he said.
His voice was very controlled.
"You're — we were told you were—"
"Unconscious?" I pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down.
Every rib reminded me of the decision.
"I was.
I recovered." I looked around the table.
"Good morning.
I apologize for the absence.
I understand there was some discussion about the future of this company in my absence."
Nobody spoke.
Anthony recovered first.
He was always quick.
It was one of the things I had admired about him, once.
"Dominic, we're relieved you're here.
But given the medical situation, perhaps we should—"
"I have a letter," said a voice from the doorway.
Everyone turned.
A man in a grey suit stood at the door.
Dr.
Voss, I assumed.
He held a sealed envelope.
"A medical assessment," Voss said, "confirming that Mr.
Moretti is not competent to—"
"From whom?" Claire Ashworth stepped in behind him.
She was holding her own folder.
"Because I have a letter as well.
From Dr.
Emil Haan, Chief of Neurology at New York-Presbyterian, confirming that Mr.
Moretti suffered no neurological impairment from his injuries and is fully competent to conduct business." She set it on the table.
"I also have Dr.
Haan's formal complaint, filed this morning with the New York State Medical Board, regarding Dr.
Voss's prescription of a controlled sedative compound to a patient — Mr.
Moretti — without ever conducting an examination."
Voss didn't move.
But the envelope lowered slightly.
"And," Claire continued, setting a second document on the table, "I have a filing from the Delaware Secretary of State's office confirming the directors of Halcyon Bridge LLC — a company that holds a four-percent stake in this organization, acquired without board disclosure, in violation of our charter's conflict-of-interest provisions."
She slid the page toward the center of the table.
The three board members who had received consulting fees looked at it.
Then they looked at Anthony.
Anthony looked at me.
"Dominic," he said.
His voice had changed.
The control was still there, but underneath it something had shifted.
"Whatever you think you've found—"
"I think I've found a wire transfer," I said.
"From Halcyon Bridge to a man named Whitfield, eight months after my father died, in exchange for altering a toxicology report." I kept my voice level.
"I think I've found that Halcyon Bridge was formed fourteen months before my father's death, with you as a director.
Along with Veronica Hale.
And a lawyer named Ferris." I looked at him across the table.
"I think my father didn't die of a heart attack, Anthony."
The room was absolutely still.
"And I think you've known that for eleven years."
Anthony's hand was flat on the table.
He didn't pick up his phone.
He didn't look at Roland.
He looked at me, and for one moment — just one — something crossed his face that I hadn't expected.
Not defiance.
Not calculation.
Fear.
"You can't prove—" he started.
"The original toxicology report is already with the District Attorney's office," Claire said.
"Filed at eight a.m.
this morning, along with the wire transfer documentation and the Halcyon Bridge corporate records." She closed her folder.
"Mr.
Moretti's legal team has been in contact with the DA since six a.m."
Roland stood up.
His chair scraped.
He walked to the door without a word and didn't look back.
Anthony watched him go.
Then his lawyer — the same one who had been haggling over trusteeships at my hospital bedside — quietly gathered his papers and stood.
"I'll need to recuse myself," he said to no one in particular, and left.
Anthony sat alone at the far end of the table.
"You were like a son to me," I said.
It came out quieter than I intended.
"After my father died, you were the only family I had left."
He said nothing.
"Was any of it real?
Any of it at all?"
Anthony looked at his hands.
For a long moment I thought he wouldn't answer.
"The company was always going to be mine," he said finally.
"Your father chose you over me.
His own brother's son." His voice was flat.
Empty.
"I built half of what this company is.
And he left it to you because you were his bl00d."
"So you took his life."
He didn't answer.
Which was its own answer.
I stood.
My ribs pulled.
I didn't let it show.
"I want you out of this building," I said.
"Your access cards, your parking, your office.
Everything.
Today." I looked at the remaining board members.
"We'll reschedule the formal meeting for next week.
In the meantime, I'll be resuming full operational control, effective now."
I picked up Claire's folder and walked to the door.
Behind me, I heard Anthony's chair push back.
I heard him stand.
"Dominic."
I stopped.
I didn't turn around.
"I am sorry," he said.
"About Nico."
I stood there for a moment.
Nico, who had been in that car because I'd asked him to drive.
Nico, who had a daughter in the third grade and a wife who called me three times from the hospital before I'd been able to get word to her.
May you like
"I know you are," I said.
I walked out.
