Chapter 12 - Dominic's Ultimatum
Peace in the underworld, however, is a fragile illusion.
Three weeks after Dominic’s arrest, the first real threat to Caleb’s new order arrived not from a hitman’s gun, but in an envelope stamped with the seal of the United States District Court.
Marcus entered the executive boardroom of the newly rebranded Vale Maritime Logistics in downtown Chicago, tossing a thick legal brief onto the glass conference table.
“Dominic’s lawyers filed an emergency motion,” Marcus said grimly. “They’re contesting Caleb’s legal competency.”
I sat beside Caleb at the head of the table. Over the past three weeks, I had officially become the vice president of communications for the firm—and Caleb’s public voice.
*What does it say?* I signed to Marcus, translating aloud for the room.
“Dominic’s legal team is arguing that Caleb’s sudden ‘recovery’ is fraudulent,” Marcus explained, his brow furrowed. “They’ve brought in a team of corrupt state neurologists claiming Caleb is suffering from traumatic brain syndrome and that you, Hannah, are exercising undue influence over him to seize control of the billion-dollar estate.”
I felt a cold drop in my stomach. “They want a court-ordered conservatorship.”
“Worse,” Marcus said. “The judge assigned to the hearing is Judge Harrison Vance. He was on Dominic’s payroll for twenty years. If Vance rules Caleb incompetent, Caleb will be remanded to a high-security state psychiatric facility, and Dominic’s secondary trustees—his remaining loyalist capos—will seize control of every asset we just cleaned up.”
I turned to Caleb.
He didn't look worried. He sat calmly, wearing an impeccably tailored navy suit, sipping black coffee.
He set his cup down and picked up a pen, writing smoothly on his pad:
*Vance wants a show? We will give him a show.*
*Caleb,* I signed, concern lacing my features. *If Vance rules against you in a closed-door hearing, armed marshals will take you directly from the courtroom. We won't be able to protect you.*
Caleb reached over, his hand resting firmly over mine, silencing my anxious movements.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, opened an encrypted messaging app, and showed me a video file that had been delivered ten minutes prior.
The video was taken from a hidden camera inside a private dining club in Gold Coast. It showed Judge Vance sitting across from Don Moretti’s disgraced nephew, accepting a duffel bag packed with cash.
Caleb smiled—a cool, lethal, chess player’s smile.
He typed:
*Dominic taught me that everyone has a price. What he forgot to teach me... is that some people prefer the truth.*
He turned the phone toward Marcus.
*Leak the video to the Department of Justice five minutes before the hearing begins,* Caleb typed. *And contact the Chicago Tribune. I am going to testify in open court.*
My jaw dropped. *Testify? With ASL?*
Caleb looked at me, his eyes gleaming with brilliant defiance.
May you like
*No,* he signed. *With you.*
***