Chapter 8 - The Confrontation in TriBeCaBy 9:30 PM, the rain had started—a heavy, relentless summer downpour that lashed against the glass windows of Viktor Vance’s luxury penthouse in TriBeCa, turning the glittering lights of the downtown skyline into blurred smears of neon and gold.
My black sedan didn't park in the garage; it pulled right up to the front entrance, blocking the private loading dock.
Four of my security operatives—burly men in dark raincoats—swarmed the lobby before the doorman could even reach his desk.
I walked behind them, my stride steady, my charcoal suit dry despite the storm outside. The pain in my chest was gone, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus that had made Dominic Moretti a name feared in financial boardrooms from Wall Street to London.
We bypassed the elevator and took the private service stairs to the penthouse level.
When my security chief kicked open the mahogany double doors of Viktor’s penthouse, the scene inside was almost comical in its desperation.
Viktor Vance—a tall, impeccably groomed man in his late forties wearing an expensive silk shirt—was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows with a half-packed leather suitcase open on the dining table. Next to him stood a laptop with the screen glowing brightly, displaying an active file transfer protocol to an overseas bank account in Zurich.
He spun around, his face turning the color of curdled milk when he saw me walk through the door.
“Dominic,” Viktor stammered, his hands hovering over the keyboard. “You... you’re supposed to be recovering at home.”
I walked slowly across the imported hardwood floor, my leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the wood. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't threaten him with physical violence. Physical violence was for amateurs. In my world, true destruction was financial, legal, and absolute.
“Nice suitcase, Viktor,” I said, stopping three feet away from him.
“This... this is a misunderstanding,” Viktor said, trying to regain his corporate composure, though his lower lip was trembling. “I was just reviewing some documents for the Meridian audit—audit preparation, nothing more—”
“You downloaded four gigabytes of encrypted internal communications to a flash drive at 11:45 AM,” I said, quoting the exact timestamp from my IT department’s forensic report. “You sent an anonymous tip to the federal prosecutor in Brooklyn regarding the zoning files. And you booked a one-way first-class ticket to Geneva under an alias departing at midnight.”
Viktor stared at me, the last vestige of his bluff evaporating into the air-conditioned silence of the penthouse.
“You can’t prove any of that,” Viktor whispered, though there was no conviction left in his voice.
“I don’t need to prove it in a court of law, Viktor,” I said softly. “This isn't a criminal trial. This is a corporate execution.”
I turned to Marco, who stood by the door holding a secure satellite phone.
“Is everything in place?”
“Yes, Boss,” Marco replied crisply. “Viktor’s accounts have been frozen across all domestic and international institutions under emergency corporate forfeiture clauses. The federal prosecutors have already been notified by our legal team that Viktor was the sole architect of the insider trading scheme, backed by signed wire-transfer logs pointing directly to his personal accounts in the Caymans. The SEC subpoena against our firm has been withdrawn and re-filed against Viktor individually.”
Viktor let out a ragged gasp, his knees buckling slightly as he caught the edge of the dining table to keep from falling.
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“You ruined me,” he breathed, staring at me with naked hatred. “You destroyed everything I worked for.”
“No, Viktor,” I said, turning my back on him and walking toward the door. “You tried to sell my company while I was dying on a Manhattan sidewalk. I just balanced the ledger.”
