Chapter 8 - The Screen of Condemnation
The high-definition video played with horrifying, unassailable clarity, accompanied by crisp audio picked up by directional microphones.
On the screen, Donna Sofia was seated peacefully in her cream armchair, reading an Italian leather-bound book with her left hand.
Suddenly, Victoria burst into the frame, her face contorted in an ugly, manic rage that bore no resemblance to her public charm.
In the recording, Victoria slammed the same slate-gray document folder onto Sofia’s lap and shoved a fountain pen at her face.
“Sign it, you useless old bitch!” Victoria’s recorded voice echoed from the wall-mounted speakers, sharp and gratingly vicious.
“Dante is never going to hand over the trust to you while you’re rotting away in this mansion!”
The recorded Sofia shook her head in horror, holding up her braced right wrist to show her physical impossibility to comply.
Victoria did not care; in the video, she slapped the book out of the old woman’s hand, sending it flying across the marble.
Then, with calculated, premeditated cruelty, Victoria produced the soft white ropes from behind her back.
She violently forced the elderly woman’s arms behind her, binding her to the frame while Sofia wept and struggled in vain.
The digital audio captured the awful sound of Sofia’s ragged breathing as Victoria shoved the white gag into her mouth.
Moments later, the recording showed Elena Gomez running out from the hallway, carrying a tray of tea, screaming at Victoria to stop.
Victoria turned like a demon, grabbed the young maid by her ponytail, slapped her to the floor, and began screaming accusations.
In the present grand hall, the real Victoria Vance stared at the screen, her face drained of every drop of color.
She looked like a corpse draped in a golden-yellow shroud, completely paralyzed by the undeniable truth of her own evil.
Elena covered her mouth with her trembling hands, weeping openly as the digital vindication washed over her traumatized spirit.
Donna Sofia looked up at the screen, her dark eyes filling with tears of relief as she saw her nightmare laid bare before her son.
Dante stood motionless, his eyes locked on the monitor, his large hands slowly clenching into fists that cracked like dry timber.
Every vein in his temples throbbed against his olive skin as he witnessed the defilement of his mother’s dignity.
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He turned his gaze slowly back down to Victoria, who had collapsed into a shuddering heap within the cream armchair.
“You set her up?” Dante asked, his voice shaking with a quiet, apocalyptic rage that made the air itself feel heavy.
