Chapter 5 - The Confrontation on Seventeen
The seventeenth floor of the Moretti Logistics tower was usually dead quiet after 7:00 p.m., reserved for compliance reviews and internal auditing. But tonight, as the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, the silence was thick, suffocating, and charged with impending violence.
Briggs and two tactical guards moved out in a textbook wedge formation, their weapons drawn and tactical flashlights cutting beams of harsh white light through the darkened administrative bull pen.
Moretti walked right behind them, his massive frame radiating an aura of lethal fury. I stayed close to his flank, my heart pounding in my throat, realizing with terrifying clarity that I was no longer a spectator watching a mob drama from the sidelines—I was an active participant in a war for control of the Chicago underworld.
We rounded the corner into the executive conference suite.
The heavy mahogany doors to the main boardroom were ajar, casting a narrow strip of amber light across the carpeted hallway.
From inside came the muffled sound of a man speaking in harsh, agitated tones over an encrypted satellite phone.
"...the girl is cracking, I told you! Just transfer the second tranche of funds to the Cayman account and I'll wipe the server logs myself!"
Moretti didn't bother knocking.
With a brutal kick from his heavy leather boot, the mahogany doors exploded inward, smashing against the interior walls with a deafening crash.
Inside the boardroom, a sharp-faced man in a tailored grey suit—Marcus Vance, Arthur Vance’s younger brother and the company’s former head of internal compliance—whirled around from the conference table, dropping his satellite phone as if it were a live grenade.
"Damien!" Marcus choked out, his eyes widening in sheer terror as Moretti stepped into the room.
"Marcus," Moretti said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded like grinding stones. "I wondered which rat was still gnawing at the foundation after I cleaned out the basement."
Marcus scrambled backward, his hip slamming against the polished glass boardroom table, his hands fluttering frantically toward a heavy brass paperweight. "Stay back! You don't know what you're dealing with! The Kovalevs own half the federal prosecutors in this district! If you touch me—"
Before Marcus could finish his sentence, Briggs crossed the room in three strides, grabbed the compliance director by the throat, and slammed him down flat against the glass table with enough force to rattle the crystal water carafes.
Marcus let out a strangled gasp, his fingers clawing vainly at Briggs’s iron forearm.
Moretti walked up slowly, resting his hands palms-down on the glass table, leaning over Marcus until their faces were inches apart.
"Where is Chloe’s brother?" Moretti asked, his voice chillingly calm.
"I... I don't know anything about a brother!" Marcus wheezed, his face turning purple.
Moretti didn't raise his voice. He slowly reached out, picked up a heavy silver letter opener from the table, and idly turned it over in his fingers, the sharp metal edge catching the overhead light.
"Marcus," Moretti murmured, leaning in closer. "My sons almost died on Tuesday because your brother tried to poison them with an alkaloid cocktail over dessert. You think I have the patience for theatrical denials tonight? You have five seconds to tell me where the boy is, or I’ll let Briggs demonstrate what happens to people who try to steal my freight manifests."
Marcus’s eyes darted frantically between Moretti’s cold gray gaze and the sharp point of the silver letter opener. The tough-guy facade completely collapsed, melting into sniveling, pathetic terror.
"O'Hare!" Marcus sobbed, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Parking Garage C, Level 3! He's locked in the trunk of a black sedan! The keys are in the wheel well! Please, Damien, don't kill me!"
Moretti stared at him for a long, silent moment, absolute disgust written across his scarred features.
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"Kill you?" Moretti said softly, tossing the letter opener back onto the table with a sharp clink. "That would be too quick. Briggs, pack him up. Deliver him to federal authorities with a complete, itemized digital dossier of every bribe he paid on behalf of the Kovalevs. Let the prosecutors do my dirty work for a change."
"Understood, Boss," Briggs barked, hauling Marcus up by his collar and dragging him toward the elevators.
