Chapter 7 - The Unthinkable Betrayal
Two weeks later.
The private medical compound in the upstate Catskill Mountains was heavily fortified. Surrounded by twelve-foot concrete walls, security cameras, and forty elite Moretti soldiers, it was the safest place on the Eastern Seaboard.
Adrian sat in a leather armchair in the sunroom, looking out over the autumn trees. A permanent defibrillator-pacemaker had been surgically implanted beneath his left collarbone six days ago. He was pale and thinner, but the color was slowly returning to his face.
On the rug beside his chair, Lily was playing with a brand-new set of colored pencils.
She was drawing a picture. This time, the tall man standing next to the little girl had dark curly hair, a sharp suit, and a warm, clear smile.
Adrian looked down at her, a rare, genuine smile gracing his features. He reached out and gently squeezed her tiny hand.
"Look, Daddy! I fixed the picture," she said proudly, holding it up. "Now you have a face."
Adrian’s heart melted. "It's the most beautiful painting I've ever seen, sweetie."
Sarah walked into the room carrying a tray of tea, her face relaxed for the first time in years. "She’s been working on that for three days, Adrian."
"She’s an artist," Adrian smiled, pulling Sarah down by her wrist to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek.
For a brief moment, the blood, the bullets, and the brutality of his former life felt like a bad dream. He had decided: he was stepping down. He was handing over the daily operations of the syndicate to his lieutenants and retiring to Europe with Sarah and Lily under assumed identities.
The door to the sunroom opened quietly. Vincent stepped inside.
"Boss," Vincent said respectfully, his head wrapped in a clean medical bandage. "The transfer papers for the European accounts are ready for your final signature. Once you sign these, the Moretti name disappears from New York forever."
"Good," Adrian said, standing up slowly and walking over to the wooden desk in the corner. "It's time, Vincent. I’ve spent thirty-four years living for the family business. I want to spend the rest of my years living for my family."
Adrian picked up a silver fountain pen, uncapping it. He looked down at the documents spread across the desk.
Suddenly, Adrian froze.
His eyes scanned the bottom of the fourth page—a list of offshore shell companies used to transfer the syndicate's capital.
Nested among twenty corporate names was a specific holding company registered in Panama: Volkov International Holdings.
Adrian’s breath hitched. His eyes narrowed.
Why was Volkov’s holding company listed as a recipient account for thirty percent of the Moretti family assets?
Slowly, Adrian turned around to look at Vincent.
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Vincent was standing five feet away. But he wasn't looking at Adrian with the loyal, dedicated expression he had worn for eleven years. His face was entirely devoid of emotion.
In his hand, Vincent held a heavy, silenced pistol, pointed directly at Adrian’s heart.
