Chapter 6 - Blood on the Boardroom Floor
The Moretti Tower stood forty-eight stories tall above the Chicago River, a monolith of black tinted glass and polished steel that housed the administrative heart of the family’s legitimate and semi-legitimate operations.
At 4:45 a.m., the streets below were deserted, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of streetlights and veiled in a persistent, freezing drizzle.
A private black elevator shot upward toward the executive penthouse on the top floor.
Inside the car, the silence was suffocating.
Vincent stood in the center, dressed in a fresh, tailored charcoal-gray three-piece suit that Gabriel had fetched from a private safe-apartment nearby. Beneath his crisp white shirt, I had taped a portable, battery-operated cardiac monitor directly to his chest, its tiny digital readout tucked securely into his waistcoat pocket. A subtle, butterfly needle remained taped flat against his forearm under his French cuff, capped and ready for emergency medication if his rhythm failed.
I stood beside him, dressed in clean navy scrubs Gabriel had procured from a 24-hour medical supply house, carrying a compact trauma kit over my shoulder.
Vincent glanced down at me. “You shouldn't be here, Hannah.”
It was the first time he had used my first name without sarcasm or authority.
“I’m your medical escort, Mr. Moretti,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the illuminated floor numbers ticking upward: *40… 41… 42…* “You contracted me for two weeks through my agency. I don't abandon my patients halfway through a shift.”
A rare, genuine warmth touched his eyes. “You’re either the bravest woman I’ve ever met, or the most foolish.”
“I have a father in Milwaukee who worked thirty-five years in a steel mill before his body gave out,” I said softly. “He taught me that when you give someone your word, you see it through to the end. No matter who is shooting at you.”
Vincent reached out, his gloved hand lightly resting against the curve of my shoulder. The weight of his hand was steady, reassuring. “If we survive this morning, your father will receive the best medical care this country has to offer. On my personal account. For the rest of his life.”
My throat tightened. “Let’s just focus on surviving the next hour.”
*Ding.*
The elevator doors slid open onto the 48th-floor executive reception area.
The floor was quiet, but through the double frosted-glass doors of the main boardroom, bright fluorescent light spilled across the carpet. Muffled voices argued inside.
Gabriel moved first, his suppressed weapon drawn, checking the corners. The reception desk was empty; Isabella had dismissed the standard security team and replaced them with four private guards stationed outside the boardroom doors.
The guards reacted instantly, reaching beneath their jackets, but Vincent stepped out of the shadows.
“Try it,” Vincent commanded.
The sound of his voice froze the guards in their tracks. They stared at him as if looking at a ghost returned from the grave. They had clearly been told Vincent Moretti was incapacitated, dying in an ICU bed under police guard.
“Open the doors,” Vincent ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority.
One of the guards swallowed hard, looked at Gabriel’s leveled firearm, and pressed the electronic latch.
The heavy glass doors parted.
Inside, twelve members of the Moretti Enterprises executive committee sat around a forty-foot walnut conference table. At the far end stood Isabella Moretti, radiating confidence, dressed in an immaculate white designer suit. Beside her sat a burly, middle-aged man with slicked-back gray hair and a heavy gold signet ring—Dominic Marcone, the head of the New York syndicate.
On the projector screen behind them glowed the digital transfer deed: *Transfer of Operational Authority & Maritime Shipping Concessions: Moretti Logistics to Marcone Atlantic Group.*
“...and with Vincent’s tragic medical incapacity,” Isabella was saying, a practiced tear glistening in her eye, “as his legal proxy, I am signing the execution order—”
“You’re signing your own death warrant, Isabella.”
Vincent’s voice cut through the room like a guillotine.
The room erupted into chaos. Three board members jumped out of their chairs, papers scattering across the table. Dominic Marcone’s eyes widened, his hands instinctively gripping the edge of the conference desk.
Isabella froze, the digital stylus hovering an inch above the signature pad on the table.
She stared at her brother. Her face lost all its color, turning the exact shade of chalk.
“Vincent…?” she whispered, her voice failing.
Vincent walked into the room with slow, deliberate steps. Every stride was calculated, masking the severe physical toll his body was enduring. I stayed two paces behind him, my eyes darting between the monitor readout in my pocket and the armed men scattered across the room.
His heart rate was at one-ten. Climbing.
“You look surprised, sister,” Vincent said smoothly, walking down the length of the table. The executives parted before him like the Red Sea, cowering in their leather chairs. “Did Dr. Whitmore forget to text you?”
“This… this is impossible,” Isabella stammered, clutching the table for support. “You were in cardiac arrest. The hospital confirmed—”
“The hospital confirmed you’re an amateur,” Vincent interrupted, reaching the head of the table.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the thick stack of Antonio Moretti’s handwritten letters, and slammed them down directly on top of the digital signature pad.
“Antonio Moretti’s final testament,” Vincent announced, turning his piercing gaze onto the twelve board members. “Complete bank records showing Isabella Moretti and Dominic Marcone laundering eighty million dollars of illicit cartel capital through our eastern shipping terminals. Accompanied by forensic evidence proving the deliberate digitalis poisoning of our late father… and the ongoing attempted murder of our mother.”
A collective gasp swept through the room.
Dominic Marcone slowly pushed his chair back and stood up. “Vincent. Let’s not make a scene in front of the civilians. Business is business. Your sister offered an arrangement that benefits everyone—”
“Shut your mouth, Dominic,” Vincent snarled, turning on the New York boss with such violent intensity that Marcone took a step back. “You set foot in my city, conspire to murder my family, and think you can talk about business? You leave Chicago within the hour, or your family receives your body in a shipping crate.”
Marcone’s jaw tightened, his hand twitching toward his pocket.
*Click.*
Gabriel pressed the barrel of his gun against the back of Marcone’s skull. “I wouldn't,” Gabriel whispered.
Isabella suddenly screamed.
She lunged across the table, grabbing a small, silver .22 caliber pistol hidden inside the leather executive folder before her.
“I won't let you ruin this!” she shrieked, aiming the weapon directly at Vincent’s chest. “You were always his favorite! You always got the empire! I did the dirty work while you played the legitimate prince!”
“Isabella, don't!” I screamed, stepping forward.
Vincent didn't move. He stood tall, looking down the barrel of his sister’s gun with cold, detached pity.
“Shoot me, then,” Vincent whispered. “Prove to everyone in this room that you’re nothing more than a thief with Father’s last name.”
Isabella’s finger tightened on the trigger. Her knuckles turned white. Her chest heaved in ragged, hysterical breaths.
In my pocket, the cardiac monitor let out a rapid, high-pitched beep: *Heart Rate: 152 bpm.*
Vincent’s vision blurred. I saw his knees micro-buckle. The strain was finally overpowering his heart.
“Vincent!” I shouted.
May you like
Before Isabella could fire, the double doors of the boardroom were blown off their hinges by an explosive tactical breach.
***
