Chapter 13
Grant asked for one meeting before deciding whether to fight the criminal and civil cases.
Vincent agreed only if attorneys attended.
They met downtown.
No estate.
No capos.
No relatives.
Grant entered wearing a plain charcoal suit.
No luxury watch.
No Bellacorte company pin.
He looked older than forty-two.
Vincent did not care.
Grant sat.
For a long moment, neither man spoke.
Then Grant said:
“You opened everything.”
“Yes.”
“You cost the family millions.”
“Your accounting did that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Grant leaned back.
“Northstar would have kept the division intact.”
“At a price you manipulated.”
“It would have kept thousands of jobs.”
“So would competent management.”
“Maybe.”
Grant’s frustration surfaced.
“You were changing everything.”
Vincent waited.
“The old clubs. Family contracts. Executive positions.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted outsiders everywhere.”
“I wanted professionals.”
“You wanted people who didn’t owe us anything.”
“That was part of the appeal.”
Grant shook his head.
“You don’t understand what happens when the family stops owning the machinery around itself.”
Vincent almost laughed.
“I own the company.”
“For now.”
There it was.
Grant believed institutional financing, independent directors, and professional management would eventually make the Bellacortes ordinary.
To him, ordinary meant vulnerable.
Northstar offered another path.
Grant could preserve control over the Midwest division by moving it into a new ownership structure where he became an equity-holding operator.
He told himself he was saving part of the family legacy before Vincent professionalized it out of existence.
Vincent looked at him.
“So you decided to steal the price.”
Grant frowned.
“What?”
“You couldn’t afford the company.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“So you damaged it until somebody else could buy it cheaply and give you a piece.”
Grant said nothing.
“That isn’t preserving legacy.”
Silence.
“That’s rigging the auction.”
Grant looked down.
Vincent continued.
“And Lila?”
Grant’s face changed.
“That was not planned.”
“No.”
“I never meant for her to go in the pool.”
“You shoved her.”
“She had the notebook.”
“She was four.”
“I panicked.”
“You were forty-two.”
Grant closed his eyes.
For the first time, the business explanations stopped.
No EBITDA.
No family legacy.
No outside banks.
No Vincent changing too much.
Grant whispered:
“I was afraid.”
Vincent said nothing.
Grant continued.
“If you read it, everything was over.”
“Yes.”
“I saw her running toward you.”
“And?”
Grant looked directly at him.
“I chose the deal.”
The sentence hung between them.
“I told myself I was taking paper from a child.”
His voice broke slightly.
“Then she pulled away, and I shoved her.”
Vincent remained still.
Grant swallowed.
“There isn’t a version of that where I’m right.”
That was the first meaningful responsibility he had taken.
Vincent accepted the truth of it.
He did not offer forgiveness.
Grant asked:
“Will she ever let me apologize?”
Vincent’s answer was immediate.
“That will never be your decision.”
May you like
Grant nodded.
For once, he did not argue.
