Chapter 6 - THE FALL OF WENDY VANCE
By midday, the Vance family mansion in Westchester County—the very estate where thirty lashes had been struck against my back less than eighteen hours ago—was crawling with federal agents, forensic accountants, and private moving crews.
Wendy Vance stood on the sweeping marble portico of the mansion she had ruled for thirty-five years, her dyed-blonde hair flying wildly in the afternoon breeze. She was dressed in a silk morning gown, clutching a small Louis Vuitton overnight bag to her chest like a newborn child. But even that small comfort was about to be stripped away.
A sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the circular driveway, and I stepped out, accompanied by Leo.
When Wendy saw me, her bloodshot eyes blazed with hysterical fury. She lunged down the marble steps toward me, her manicured nails curved like claws. “You peasant! You filthy, ungrateful gutter rat! Look at what you’ve done to our home! Our legacy! My son is in an infirmary bed with a concussion, and my husband is in federal custody! I will tear your eyes out!”
Before she could get within five feet of me, Leo stepped in her path. He didn't raise a hand. He merely stood there, six-foot-four of hardened muscle, his cold gaze pinning her in place. Wendy skidded to a halt, her chest heaving, terror finally catching up to her rage.
“Mrs. Vance,” Leo said, his voice deep and rumbling like distant artillery. “If you take one more step toward my sister, I will have the federal marshals currently cataloging your master bedroom arrest you for attempted assault on an officer of the court.”
“Officer of the court?” Wendy shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at me. “She’s a criminal! Her whole family belongs in federal prison!”
“Actually, Wendy,” I said, stepping around Leo and looking her up and down with genuine pity, “I am now the sole conservator of this property. Julian filed the emergency deed transfer under the marital fraud statute two hours ago. This house, the sixty acres surrounding it, and every piece of furniture inside belong to me.”
Wendy laughed, a shrill, manic sound. “You think you can just throw me out of my own home? The Vance trust—”
“The Vance trust was declared an instrument of criminal racketeering at 11:00 AM,” Julian’s crisp voice sounded from behind us as he stepped out of a second vehicle, accompanied by two federal marshals in windbreakers. “Furthermore, Mrs. Vance, Marcus traced forty-five million dollars of stolen municipal pension funds directly into your personal jewelry collection and art portfolio.”
One of the federal marshals stepped forward, holding out a laminated search warrant. “Wendy Vance, step away from the bag.”
“No!” Wendy shrieked, hugging the Louis Vuitton bag tighter. “These are my personal belongings! My jewelry! My mother’s pearls!”
“Your mother’s pearls were pawned in 1994, Wendy,” Julian countered smoothly, checking his tablet. “That bag contains three million dollars in unset diamonds and bearer bonds you removed from the hidden floor safe in the master closet twenty minutes ago. That constitutes tampering with evidence and unlawful asset concealment during an active federal forfeiture proceeding.”
The marshal didn't wait. He stepped forward and firmly wrenched the designer bag from Wendy’s grasp. When she tried to claw at his arms, the second marshal grabbed her wrists, spun her around, and snapped a pair of cold steel handcuffs onto her delicate, diamond-ringed wrists.
“Get your hands off me!” Wendy screamed, thrashing against the marshal’s grip. “Do you know who I am? I am Wendy Vance! I sit on the board of the Metropolitan Opera! I host the governor for dinner!”
“Not anymore,” I said, stepping up to her.
I reached out and gently unclipped the massive diamond earrings from her earlobes. They were five-carat teardrop diamonds Isaac had gifted her for Christmas—bought, no doubt, with money stolen from working-class city pensions. Wendy flinched as my fingers touched her, her breath hitching in terror.
“You laughed when Isaac tied me to that beam,” I whispered in her ear. “You told the guests I was nothing. You said I should be grateful to be allowed into your family.”
Wendy’s lips trembled. The haughty socialite who had terrified Manhattan’s charity circuit was crumbling into dust.
“Please, Flora,” Wendy whined, her tears smearing heavy mascara down her cheeks. “I’m an old woman. Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do?”
“Caleb found a lovely studio apartment in the Bronx,” I replied coldly, dropping her diamond earrings into an evidence pouch held by the marshal. “Forty-five square meters. A shared bathroom down the hall. The monthly rent is eight hundred dollars, which happens to be the exact amount of the monthly state pension you will receive once the courts finish seizing your assets.”
Wendy looked at me as if I had driven a dagger through her heart. “The Bronx? A shared bathroom? I’d rather die!”
“Then I suggest you get used to disappointment, Wendy,” I said. “Take her away.”
The marshals led Wendy down the driveway toward a waiting transport van, her high-pitched wails echoing across the manicured lawns that would no longer bear her name.
Leo walked over to my side, watching the van pull away. “How are the wounds, Flora?”
May you like
“They still hurt,” I admitted, touching my back through my coat. “But seeing this... it’s better than any painkiller.”
“Good,” Leo nodded, pulling a satellite phone from his pocket. “Because Caleb just called from the medical ward at the Tombs. Isaac is awake. And he’s finally realized that no one is coming to save him.”
