“Don’t Make Any Plans for January,” My Husband Told Me at New Year’s Dinner – When Midnight Struck, I Understood Why

The Final Performance

In the morning, I found him at the kitchen table surrounded by documents. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembling as he reached for his coffee. I asked: “Robert, you look terrible. When did you last sleep?”

He replied: “I’m fine.” I countered: “You’re not fine. You’re falling apart.”

He looked up at me, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I saw the fear naked on his face. He said: “Margot, I need you to do something for me. I need you to go stay with Joyce for a few days.”

I asked: “What? Why?” He pleaded: “Please. Don’t ask questions. Just pack a bag and go.”

I refused: “I’m not leaving this house. This is my home.” He blurted: “It’s not safe—”

He stopped himself, but too late. I asked: “Not safe? From what? From whom?”

Robert’s jaw clenched. He gathered his papers and stood. “I have a meeting. We’ll discuss this when I get back.”

I asked: “What meeting?” He replied: “Business.”

He was already walking away. I waited until his car pulled out of the driveway, then called James. I told him: “He knows something’s changed. He’s trying to get me out of the house, send me to Joyce’s.”

James said: “That’s actually not a bad idea, Margot, if you’re meeting with Marcato.” I insisted: “I’m not running. I need to know what Robert’s so afraid of. There’s something he’s not telling me, something beyond the threats.”

Face to Face with the Fixer

I spent the rest of the morning preparing. I practiced activating the recording pen until I could do it smoothly, naturally. I rehearsed what I’d say, how I’d present myself—scared enough to seem vulnerable, strong enough to seem worth negotiating with.

At 2:30, I drove to the restaurant. It was an upscale Italian place, the kind where businessmen made deals over expensive wine. I arrived early, positioning myself at a table where I could see the entrance.

Vincent Marcato walked in at exactly 3:00. He was younger than I’d expected, maybe 55, with silver-gray hair and an expensive suit. He moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to getting what he wanted.

When he spotted me, he smiled—warm, disarming, completely at odds with the monster Robert feared. He said: “Mrs. Wittmann, thank you for agreeing to meet.”

He extended his hand. I shook it, noting the firm grip, the gold watch, the manicured nails. I said: “Mr. Marcato.”

He sat across from me, ordering a bourbon when the waiter appeared. I declined anything to drink; my hands needed to stay steady. Marcato began: “I appreciate directness, so I’ll be frank. Your husband and I have been negotiating the sale of your company. We’d reached an agreement, then you sent me that email. Why?”

I activated the recording pen in my purse, the tiny click masked by the restaurant noise. I replied: “Because no one consulted me. Robert’s been making decisions that affect my life without including me in the conversation.”

He asked: “So this is about respect? Being included?” I answered: “This is about understanding what’s really happening. My husband is terrified. He’s planning to flee to Canada. He’s selling our life’s work for half its value. That’s not retirement planning, Mr. Marcato. That’s surrender.”

Marcato’s smile didn’t waver. “Your husband is a smart man. He understands that sometimes the wisest choice is to walk away.” I asked: “From what? From whom? Who are you, really, Mr. Marcato?”

He answered: “I’m a businessman facilitating a real estate transaction.” I countered: “You’re a criminal facilitating a robbery.”

The smile finally faded. “Careful, Mrs. Wittmann. Accusations like that can be dangerous.” I asked: “Is that a threat?”

He replied: “It’s a reality. Your husband understands the situation. I’m surprised he didn’t explain it to you.” I said: “He tried to protect me by keeping me ignorant. But I’m not ignorant anymore. I know about North Point Development. I know about your connections to the Castellano family. I know about Thomas Brennan.”

Implied Endings

Marcato’s expression hardened. “You’ve been doing homework. That’s either very brave or very foolish.” I asked: “What happened to Thomas Brennan?”

He answered: “Mr. Brennan had an accident. Tragic, but unrelated to our business dealings.” I argued: “He fell down his basement stairs two weeks after refusing to sell to your clients. Just like you threatened could happen to my husband or me.”

He claimed: “I never threatened anyone.” Marcato’s voice remained calm, but his eyes had gone cold. “I simply pointed out that elderly people are vulnerable. Accidents happen. It would be unfortunate if something happened to you or your husband before you could enjoy your retirement.”

Every word was being recorded. I forced myself to push further: “How much are you really making from this deal? If you’re paying us $12 million for properties worth $25 million, someone’s profiting $13 million.”

He replied: “That’s business, Mrs. Wittmann. Buy low, sell high.” I said: “It’s extortion. You’re using fear and intimidation to steal from us.”

Marcato leaned forward. “Let me tell you what I see. I see a 70-year-old woman whose husband is trying desperately to keep her safe. I see someone who thinks she’s being brave by confronting me, but who’s actually putting herself in danger.”

He added: “Your husband agreed to my terms because he loves you. He’s willing to lose money to keep you alive. Are you really going to undo all that because of pride?”

I answered: “It’s not pride, it’s principle.” He countered: “Principle doesn’t matter when you’re dead.”

The words hung between us. I’d gotten what I needed—implied threats, admission of coercion, enough to prove duress. But I kept going: “Why our company? Why these specific properties?”

He explained: “They’re positioned perfectly for a development project that will reshape the entire commercial corridor. Your warehouses and distribution centers sit on land worth exponentially more than you realize. We’re not stealing from you, Mrs. Wittmann. We’re offering you a fraction of future value. Yes, but that’s how development works.”

I asked: “And if we refuse?” Marcato sat back. “Then the project proceeds anyway, with or without your cooperation. And I can’t guarantee your safety if you become an obstacle.”

I stated: “You just threatened me directly.” He answered: “I stated a fact. These projects involve significant money, powerful people, interests that don’t appreciate interference. Your husband understands this. He’s making the smart choice.”

I countered: “My husband is being terrorized.” He replied: “Your husband is being realistic.”

Marcato’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then stood. “I have another appointment, Mrs. Wittmann. I genuinely hope you reconsider. The offer expires January 14th. After that, I can’t control what happens.”

He dropped a business card on the table. “If you change your mind, call me. Otherwise, convince your husband to finalize the sale. For both your sakes.” He left without another word.