Chapter 13 - The Chessboard Moves
Midnight fell over New York City like a heavy velvet shroud. Inside a dimly lit penthouse overlooking Central Park, Viktor Vasiliev poured himself a glass of neat vodka, swirling the clear liquid while staring out at the glittering expanse of Manhattan.
The penthouse belonged to a Wall Street executive who had recently found himself drowning in gambling debts owed to the Bratva. Now, the executive was tied to a chair in the master bedroom, whimpering quietly as two of Viktor’s Spetsnaz operatives stood guard over him.
The heavy oak door swung open, and a tall, scarred man named Grigori stepped inside, shaking the damp autumn chill from his leather overcoat.
“Talk,” Viktor commanded, not bothering to turn around. His Russian accent was thick, clipped, and devoid of warmth. “Where is Moretti?”
“He’s not at his Manhattan townhouse, and his primary downtown headquarters have been stripped of personnel,” Grigori reported, unzipping his tactical pack and tossing a dossier onto the glass coffee table. “He pulled all his senior captains back to his private estate in Alpine, New Jersey. It’s a fortress, Viktor. High walls, private security detail numbering in the dozens, and automated surveillance.”
Viktor finally turned, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. He took a slow sip of his vodka before setting the glass down with a sharp clink. “Let him hide behind his stone walls. Moretti thinks that by stepping down from the council, he can play domestic bliss with his new nurse girlfriend.”
“The nurse isn't just a girlfriend,” Grigori corrected, stepping closer. “Our intelligence network in Queens pulled hospital records from Elmhurst. Her name is Sophia Miller. But facial recognition cross-referenced with old federal databases from six years ago tells a much more interesting story. Her real name is Sophia Laurent. The daughter of Marcus Laurent—the former federal prosecutor who almost brought down the entire Moretti-Vasiliev shipping pipeline before his sudden... retirement.”
Viktor’s eyes narrowed, the grin fading into a look of calculating amusement. “Laurent’s daughter? The girl Moretti was supposed to have executed for treason after she stole the ledger containing our offshore accounts?”
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“Moretti didn't execute her,” Grigori said softly. “He fell in love with her. And when she vanished six years ago, he spent millions looking for her.”
A dark, resonant laugh escaped Viktor’s chest. He picked up his glass again, draining it in a single swallow. “So the invincible Adrian Moretti has a soft spot. A hidden family. A daughter with his own blood running through her veins.” Viktor slammed the glass down, shattering it against the marble table. “Get the team ready. We don't attack the front gates. We don't try to breach the estate through force. We use the girl.”
