Chapter 7 - The Repossession Order
The lawyer in the charcoal suit stepped forward, opening a secondary leather folder and laying three formal documents flat on the kitchen table in front of Godfrey and Selina.
"Pursuant to Section 4 of the Emergency Asset Recovery and Restitution Order filed this morning at the county courthouse," the attorney announced in a dry, emotionless monotone, "all commercial and residential properties, vehicles, and liquid capital acquired using misappropriated funds from Mr. Damian Vance are subject to immediate administrative freeze and judicial repossession."
Godfrey stared at the papers as if they were written in an alien language. "No. No way. You can't just take my shop! I have clients! I have inventory! I signed a three-year commercial lease!"
"The commercial lease was signed using a fraudulent equity line of credit drawn against this very house—a house where Damian holds fifty percent primary ownership as co-signatory on the original mortgage," the lawyer replied smoothly. "The commercial landlord has already been notified. The locks on your auto shop are being changed as we speak by court bailiffs."
"Bailiffs?!" Selina screamed, her fragile facade completely shattering into a torrential outburst of rage and tears. She pointed a trembling finger straight at my face, her voice echoing off the newly remodeled kitchen walls. "You ungrateful, treacherous bastard! We gave you a home! We kept your wife out of our hair while you were gone! And now you're bringing the police and the courts to our doorstep? I hope she dies! I hope that bald witch rots in the ground right along with you!"
The moment those vile words left her mouth, the heavy air in the kitchen turned dead silent. Even Godfrey froze, horrified by his mother's lack of filter.
I didn't yell. I didn't lose my temper. I simply reached into my pocket, pulled out the gold hummingbird pendant Selina had been wearing just yesterday, and tossed it casually onto the counter next to her coffee cup.
May you like
"You're right about one thing, Mom," I said quietly, stepping closer until I towered over her shaking frame. "Phedra is sick. But she's not rotting anywhere. Because as of this morning, every single cent of my settlement—plus every dollar you stole from my monthly remittances—is being funneled directly into a specialized oncology trust managed entirely by me and independent medical executors."
I turned away from her, gesturing to the lawyer. "Serve the eviction notices. They have four hours to pack their personal clothing and get off my property."
