Chapter 2 - Bloodlines and Betrayal
I dragged the two bodies out to the terrace and locked down the penthouse's automated defense protocols, rerouting all power to the inner sanctum. When I opened the panic room door, Sloan was sitting on the floor with Willa sleeping soundly against her chest, her face pale but composed.
“Are they gone?” she whispered.
“Temporarily,” I said, kneeling in front of her. “Talk to me, Sloan. Now. What is it about Willa that I don't know?”
She flinched, looking down at the baby’s tiny face. “When I found out I was pregnant, right after you walked out, I didn't just hide in New York. I went back to my family’s estate in Newport to clear my head.”
“Your family is old money, retired shipping magnates. They don’t have enemies like mine.”
“My father wasn't just a shipping magnate, Vincent,” she said bitterly. “He was the primary financial launderer for the Russian syndicate on the East Coast. And when he died, he didn't leave his empire to my brothers—they were too weak. He set up a contingency trust.”
The pieces of a horrifying puzzle began snapping into place. “A bloodline trust.”
“Yes,” Sloan nodded, tears finally spilling over her lashes. “The syndicate needs a direct blood descendant of the founding families to unlock the digital offshore accounts holding billions in liquid assets. And the charter states that the child must be claimed by both maternal and paternal dynastic lines, or the assets revert entirely to the syndicate.”
“They didn’t just want my child,” I realized, a dark fury rising in my chest. “They wanted to merge the Moretti empire with the Russian syndicate through our daughter.”
“And since you divorced me, they thought I was vulnerable. They thought I would trade the baby for protection,” Sloan sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “I didn't tell you because I thought if you never knew she existed, you and your empire would be safe from them.”
I reached out, taking her chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me. “Listen to me, Sloan. Nobody touches my daughter. Not the Russians, not the outfit, not God himself.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a restricted number.
I answered on speaker, keeping my eyes locked on Sloan.
“Mr. Moretti,” a cold, accented voice purred through the speaker. “I trust you enjoyed the welcoming committee. You have twenty-four hours to hand over the child to our representatives at Pier 54. Otherwise, we start dismantling your overseas holdings piece by piece—starting with your shipping ports in Tokyo.”
“You think you can threaten me in my own city?” I replied, my voice dangerously low.
“We don’t threaten, Vincent. We collect. See you tomorrow at midnight.”
The line went dead.
I pocketed the phone and stood up, walking over to the safe behind my desk. I punched in the combination and pulled out a heavy, encrypted satellite phone—a device I hadn't used since the brutal Brooklyn war five years ago.
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“Who are you calling?” Sloan asked, her voice trembling.
“Every capo, soldier, and loyalist I have left in the five boroughs,” I said, cocking the slide of a fresh firearm. “The Russians wanted a war for my daughter? I’m going to give them a massacre.”
