Chapter 4 - The Tribunal
The executive suite on the fourth floor looked less like a restaurant office and more like a high-stakes corporate boardroom in Manhattan. Heavy mahogany paneling lined the walls, and a massive marble conference table dominated the center of the room.
Four senior capos sat around the table, their faces carved from granite. Marcus Vance sat at the head, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
They pushed me into a wooden chair near the door. My knees trembled so violently I could barely keep my feet flat on the Persian rug.
"Elena Vance," Marcus began, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Let’s review the facts. Yesterday afternoon, at 2:14 PM, your employee badge opened the private biometric lock to Dominic Vale’s executive study. At 2:16 PM, the override code for his pacemaker-integrated medical monitor was deactivated from his office terminal. At 2:18 PM, Dominic collapsed on the sidewalk outside."
"I didn't do it!" I cried out, my voice cracking. "Check the security cameras! I was in the laundry corridor the entire afternoon!"
"The cameras in the corridor were looped," Marcus replied coldly. "A thirty-minute technical glitch. Very convenient. Furthermore, we found a digital draft of a complete ownership transfer document on the terminal, assigning full control of Veils Restaurant and Dominic’s real estate holdings to Julian Vale—his estranged nephew."
Julian.
The name hung in the air like a foul odor. Julian Vale was Dominic’s younger brother’s son—a slick, debt-ridden gambler who had been banished from the family three years ago after embezzling from the docks.
"Julian has an alibi," Marcus continued. "He was across town at a high-stakes poker club. But the digital signature on the transfer papers... it requires two things to execute legally under family bylaws: Dominic’s biometric authentication, which was bypassed when his medical monitor failed, and a physical witness signature from a trusted employee on duty."
Marcus slid a piece of heavy parchment across the table toward me.
At the bottom of the document, neatly written in black ink, was my signature: Elena Vance.
I stared at the paper, horrified. The handwriting was an exact, flawless imitation of my own—down to the way I looped my 'E' and crossed my 't's with a sharp upward slant.
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"I never signed this," I whispered, tears spilling over my lashes. "I swear to God, I never saw this paper before in my life."
"In our world, Mrs. Vance, a forged signature is still a death sentence if it achieves its purpose," Marcus said, standing up. "And right now, all roads lead to you."
