Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
By nightfall, the Manhattan penthouse had been transformed into an impenetrable fortress. I had my inner circle—led by my fiercely loyal consigliere, Mateo, and a dozen elite enforcers—stationed at every choke point.
Sloan and Willa were secured in the safest room in the estate, guarded by my two most trusted men.
I stood in the dimly lit study, reviewing floor plans of Pier 54, when the heavy oak door creaked open. Mateo stepped inside, his face grave.
“The families in Brooklyn and Queens are mobilizing, boss,” Mateo said quietly. “Word got out that the Russian Bratva is trying to make a play for a Moretti heir. They’re ready to ride with us.”
“Good. I don't want survivors left to tell the story,” I replied without looking up from the blueprints. “This isn't a business dispute anymore. This is about blood.”
“There’s something else, Vincent. Intelligence from our contacts in London says the leak didn't come from your side. It came from within Sloan’s family trust. Her uncle, Richard.”
My jaw tightened. “Richard. The pious philanthropist.”
“He’s been working with the Russians for months, plotting to seize the trust by using Willa as leverage. He’s the one who gave them your travel schedule and the location of Sloan’s safehouse.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s flying into JFK tonight. Private charter. He thinks he’s coming to ‘rescue’ Sloan and the baby once the Russians finish their work.”
A grim smile touched my lips. “Intercept his flight, Mateo. Divert his plane to our private hangar in New Jersey. I want a word with my former uncle-in-law before the main event.”
An hour later, I stood in the cavernous, dimly lit hangar across the Hudson. The freezing wind whipped through the open bay doors as Richard’s private jet touched down and taxied to a halt.
As the boarding stairs lowered, Richard stepped out, adjusting his expensive wool coat, looking every bit the untouchable aristocrat. His expression of haughty confidence shattered the second he saw me standing at the foot of the stairs, flanked by four armed enforcers.
“V-Vincent,” Richard stammered, stumbling backward a step. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Step down, Richard,” I said softly, walking up the metal stairs until I was standing right in front of him.
“You can’t touch me! My lawyers—the board—”
I grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and threw him down the metal steps. He hit the concrete floor with a sickening thud, groaning in pain. I walked down slowly, the sound of my heavy boots echoing in the empty hangar.
I crouched beside him, grabbing a handful of his silver hair and jerking his head back.
“You sold out my daughter to the Russians,” I whispered, my voice barely above a murmur, yet vibrating with lethal intent.
“I—I had no choice! They threatened to ruin—!”
“You had every choice,” I interrupted, pressing the muzzle of my pistol against his forehead. “And you chose the wrong side.”
“Wait! Vincent, please! I can give you the Russian boss’s location! I can give you the encryption keys to their offshore accounts!”
I paused, looking down at him with utter disgust. Then, without a word of warning, I pulled the trigger.
As Richard’s body slumped against the concrete, I stood up and wiped my hands with a handkerchief.
“Mateo,” I called out.
May you like
“Boss?”
“Clean this up. And send the Russian boss his cufflinks back. Tell him midnight at Pier 54 is still on—and I’ll be bringing an RSVP.”
