Chapter 8 - The Private Terminal
The freezing Chicago wind whipped across the tarmac at O'Hare’s private aviation terminal, carrying the bitter scent of jet fuel and oncoming snow.
The Gulfstream G650 sat waiting on the tarmac, its engines humming a low, steady turbine song against the dark night sky. Marcus stayed by the boarding stairs, checking the perimeter with two trusted loyalists while I sat in the leather cabin with Elena and the four boys.
Mateo was awake now, staring out the oval window at the twinkling runway lights with quiet fascination.
"Are we flying to see Mom?" Mateo asked, turning his head to look up at me.
The question hit me like a physical blow. I knelt down beside his leather seat, my knees clicking against the carpet, and looked into those identical brown eyes that mirrored my own childhood.
"No, son," I said softly, choosing my words with agonizing care. "Mom isn't there. But we’re going to find out everything she left behind so we can keep our family safe. Do you understand?"
Mateo nodded slowly, reaching out with a small, warm hand to touch my lapel. "You have the same face as the picture in Elena’s bag."
"I do," I smiled faintly, covering his small hand with mine. "I promise you, nobody is going to take you away from this plane."
The cabin door opened with a hiss of pressurized air, and Marcus stepped inside, shaking the snow from his shoulders. He locked the heavy hatch behind him and walked down the narrow aisle toward the front table where I sat.
"We’re cleared for takeoff," Marcus reported, dropping into the seat opposite me. "Air traffic control gave us an immediate departure window. But Vincent just sent an urgent update from downtown."
"Talk to me," I said, leaning forward.
"The Vanguard didn't just freeze our bank accounts, Alejandro. They’ve called an emergency meeting of the Chicago City Council for tomorrow morning. They’re pushing an eminent domain claim on our primary shipping terminals on the river, citing 'unresolved security violations and corporate malfeasance.'"
I let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "They're trying to dismantle Moretti Enterprises brick by brick before we even land in Zurich."
"It gets worse," Marcus added, his voice dropping lower so Elena wouldn't overhear from the back. "The council member sponsoring the emergency motion is Richard Vance—Eleanor’s brother. He’s been sitting in the municipal pocket for a decade, and we never knew."
The realization clicked into place with terrifying precision. It wasn't just a corporate conspiracy or a shadow-broker council; it was a generational stranglehold on the city I thought I owned. Every bribe my father paid, every political favor traded over thirty years—the Vances had been writing the rules of the game while we played the pieces.
"Let them pass the motion," I said coldly, leaning back against the leather seat as the jet began to taxi smoothly down the runway.
Marcus frowned. "Boss, if they take the docks, we lose our entire revenue stream. We won't have the leverage to rebuild."
"They can have the docks, Marcus," I said, looking out the window as the Chicago skyline rose up in the distance, a glittering constellation of steel and neon against the dark horizon. "For now. But while Richard Vance is celebrating his victory at City Hall tomorrow morning, we're going to open Sofia’s private box in Zurich. And inside, we’re going to find the one document that proves the Vances built their entire fortune on stolen blood."
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The jet accelerated down the runway, the G650’s powerful engines roaring as we lifted off the ground, cutting through the heavy winter clouds and leaving the city behind us.
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