Chapter 10 - The Heir Apparent
Marcus Moretti stepped out from the shadows of the corridor, his tailored charcoal suit catching the dim red glow of the emergency lights. He looked remarkably like his father, save for a jagged, faint scar running along his jawline—the supposed “boating accident” that had apparently been a convenient cover story to hide him away in a European safe house while he managed the syndicate’s offshore accounts.
Adrian’s hand dropped instantly to his side, his fingers hooking into his jacket where his Sig Sauer rested, but before he could draw, three armed men stepped out behind Marcus, their suppressed automatic weapons leveled directly at our chests.
“Put your hands where I can see them, cousin,” Marcus smiled, his eyes cold and dead. “Father always was too sentimental. He wanted to play corporate politics with lawyers and fake divorces. He forgot the first rule of the Moretti family: blood controls the assets, but lead controls the people.”
I stood frozen, the leather-bound journal clutched tightly against my chest. My mind raced. Marcus wasn't dead. He had been pulling the strings from Europe while Vincent played the public fall guy in Chicago.
“You let your own father take the fall for the federal indictment,” Adrian said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with suppressed fury.
“Father was slipping,” Marcus replied smoothly, taking another step forward. “He cared about tradition. I care about expansion. And once I take possession of grandfather’s private reserve sitting right inside that vault, the Chicago ports, the union contracts, and the Swiss accounts will all belong to me.”
Marcus’s eyes flicked from Adrian to me, then dropped to my stomach, though his gaze hardened with sudden calculation as he realized I wasn't pregnant anymore.
“And of course,” Marcus continued, smiling thinly, “we can't have a competing bloodline claim to the succession, can we? Especially not a baby girl who legally inherits thirty percent of the voting stock.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, but beneath the terror, a fierce, protective anger surged through my veins. I remembered my daughter sleeping safely in the secure nursery at the Lake Geneva estate—miles away from this concrete tomb, protected by Adrian’s most loyal men. Marcus didn't know about her. He thought I was still carrying her, or that she was with us.
I stepped slightly in front of Adrian, shielding the open journal in my hand.
“You’re too late, Marcus,” I said, my voice ringing clear and steady in the confined space of the vault.
Marcus frowned, his smile faltering slightly. “Excuse me?”
“You think grandfather’s reserve is just cash and bonds?” I asked, holding up the journal. “This ledger doesn't just prove that Vincent murdered Adrian’s father. It contains the international wire routing numbers for every single offshore shell company you’ve been using to fund your exile in Europe for the last five years.”
Marcus’s face darkened instantly. “Give me the book, Claire.”
“I already transmitted a digital copy to the federal prosecutor handling Vincent’s case upstairs,” I lied smoothly, staring him down without flinching. “The moment you pull that trigger, an automated protocol releases the encryption keys to the Department of Justice and every capo in the syndicate. You won't just lose the vault, Marcus. You’ll be hunted by the FBI and your own men before sundown.”
Marcus stared at me, his finger twitching nervously on the grip of his weapon as he tried to calculate if I was bluffing.
Before he could make a choice, the heavy exterior steel door of the vault corridor shuddered with a massive, booming crash from above—the sound of reinforced battering rams tearing through the main security locks.
“Federal Marshals! Nobody move!” a voice roared through the intercom system.
Marcus cursed viciously, turning toward the corridor. “Get the car!” he yelled to his guards.
In a chaotic blur of raised weapons and shouting, Marcus and his men scrambled backward into the darkness of the service stairwell just as the main vault door was blown wide open by federal agents flooding the corridor with blinding tactical lights.
Adrian pulled me back against his chest, shielding me with his body as the chaos erupted around us.
When the dust settled and the federal agents secured the perimeter, Adrian looked down at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief, adrenaline, and overwhelming tenderness.
“Did you actually transmit the digital copy?” Adrian asked, his voice breathless.
I looked down at the leather journal in my hands—completely empty of digital files, containing only my grandfather’s handwritten confession. I looked up at Adrian and smiled faintly.
“No,” I said. “I don't even know how to code.”
Adrian let out a sudden, breathless laugh, pulling me tightly against him in the middle of the ransacked vault as the sirens wailed above us in the Chicago night.
May you like
But as the federal agents began sweeping the corridor for Marcus’s escape route, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket with a single text message from an unknown number:
Nice bluff, cousin. But you left your daughter behind in Wisconsin.
