104 "Beyond the Glass and Blood: Where Corporate Greed Feeds a Deadly Conspiracy, a Risen Ghost Shatters a Fake Dynasty, and the Ultimate Vengeance Begins at Dawn"

The rain was coming down in sheets by the time I guided the battered Transit van down into the abandoned shipping piers along the East River.

The warehouse was dark, smelling of rusted iron, damp salt air, and old grease. It was one of the few properties Anthony didn't know about—a quiet berth where my father used to store contraband back when the family ran the piers by muscle rather than corporate spreadsheets.

I killed the engine, letting the dashboard lights fade into blackness.

Inside the cabin, the only sound was the heavy, rhythmic thumping of our own breathing and the steady drumming of rain against the van’s metal roof.

Grace slowly lowered her hands from her face, looking around the desolate, cavernous space through the rain-streaked windshield. “Is... is this where we live now?”

“This is where we reset,” I said, finally releasing my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. My palms were slick with sweat, and a dull, throbbing ache radiated from my ribs where the stitches were straining under the physical exertion.

I reached down, picked up the leather ledger Grace had protected through the entire ordeal, and laid it across the steering wheel. I flipped open the brass clasp, revealing the meticulously organized pages of offshore wire transfers, forged signatures, and tax evasion logs that Veronica and Anthony had spent three years compiling.

“They thought they cleaned house,” I murmured, running my thumb down a column of routing numbers tied directly to a shell corporation in the Caymans. “They didn't realize this ledger has the digital signatures of every single board member who voted to oust me.”

Grace swallowed hard, wiping a tear from her cheek. “What do we do with it, Mr. Moretti? The police... the federal prosecutors—how do we know who is still on their payroll?”

“We don't trust the police,” I replied coldly, pulling the Glock from my waistband and setting it on the center console. “We go straight to the federal magistrate who signed the original seizure warrants for Moretti Logistics two years ago. Judge Sterling. He’s an old marine who hates corporate corruption more than he hates organized crime.”

Grace looked at me, a flicker of fierce determination replacing the terror in her eyes. “When do we go?”

“At dawn,” I said, turning the ignition key back to accessory power so the radio could catch the morning news cycle.