Chapter 7 - The Final Liquidation
The hour of the eviction was a silent, mechanical execution. The Robertson security team didn't use force; they simply stood at the corners of the grand rooms, their arms crossed, watching as Beatrice and Cynthia shoved their designer clothes, their perfume bottles, and their remaining jewelry into cardboard boxes.
Brad, Cynthia’s former driver whose salary had been paid from my son’s medical fund, was currently sitting in the kitchen entry area, his keys already surrendered to Marcus Rossi's corporate logistics team. The new SUV in the driveway had been hooked up to a commercial tow truck, its alarm chirping once before its wheels were lifted from the gravel.
I stood in the center of the living room, my arm wrapped around Amara’s shoulder, watching the portrait of my mother being taken down from the wall by one of the guards.
"Where do we go, Daniel?" my mother wept, her silk robe dragged through the dirt of the courtyard as she carried her final box of gold jewelry to the taxi that Marcus had ordered for them. "We have no money. The banks won't open an account for us after the fraud flag. Your father’s family won't take us in."
"There’s a small, two-room house near the old construction depot in the north village, Mom," I said, my voice level, polite, and completely distant. "The rent is cheap—exactly forty-two dollars a month. It has a working well and a small patch of ground behind the kitchen. If you pack well, you can grow some very nice leaves for soup."
Cynthia let out a sharp, hysterical cry as she slammed the taxi door shut, her face covered by her hands as the vehicle pulled through the gold gates, leaving the white villa behind them to darken into the evening shadows.
Marcus Rossi walked up to the porch landing, his leather briefcase clutched in his hand. He looked at me, then at Amara, and finally at Maya, who was currently tracing the brass lion’s head lock on the heavy mahogany door with her small finger.
"The transport contract for the port facility has been renewed for five years, Daniel," Marcus said quietly, his tone holding a profound, professional respect that had been earned through blood. "Your firm’s logistics subsidiary will handle thirty percent of the fleet allocation. The paperwork is ready for your signature in the morning."
"Thank you, Marcus," I said, shaking his hand. "And the marriage alliance?"
May you like
Marcus let out a short, dry laugh that vanished into the Pacific breeze. "The Rossi family doesn't invest in bankrupt stocks, Daniel. We’ll see you at the port."
He walked down the steps, his sedan pulling away from the courtyard, leaving the grand compound to its natural, majestic silence.
