Chapter 9 - The Settlement
By Monday afternoon, the federal injunction was thrown out with prejudice, the Castellano group’s fraudulent claims were dismissed, and federal investigators were already reviewing the chain of custody for the forged documents.
As I walked out of the federal courthouse into the bright spring sunshine, Matteo Moretti was waiting by the curb beside his black Town Car.
He wasn't smiling, but the look in his dark eyes held a profound, burning intensity that made my breath catch.
"You destroyed them in there," Matteo said, stepping forward as I reached the pavement.
"I just read the grammar, Mr. Moretti," I replied, a small smile breaking across my face. "Grammar doesn't lie."
Matteo reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing against my wrist. The touch sent a sudden, electric shiver up my arm.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Dinner," he said, opening the door of the Town Car. "And this time, you aren't carrying the water pitcher."
We didn't go to Bellaforte. We went to a private, high-end restaurant on the Delaware waterfront—a place owned by one of Matteo’s associates, where the lighting was warm, the wine was vintage Tuscan, and the sea bass actually tasted like it was worth eighty dollars.
For the first time since my mother died, I felt the heavy, suffocating weight of survival lift entirely off my shoulders. My debts were paid, my future was secure, and my mind was finally doing the work it was born to do.
Across the candlelit table, Matteo raised his glass of Chianti, his dark eyes locked onto mine.
May you like
"To grammar," he toasted softly.
"To grammar," I smiled, clinking my glass against his. "And to knowing when people are speaking garbage."
