Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Moretti Logistics
I turned my back on them, signaling to Evelyn, and we began walking down the limestone steps toward my SUV parked in the reserved federal bay.
“Cassidy! You can’t walk away from us!” my father shouted hoarsely, taking a clumsy step down the steps before his knees buckled.
He didn't fall—he caught himself against the cold metal handrail, gasping for air, clutching his left arm.
I stopped. I didn't turn around immediately, but the instinct—the clinical, ingrained training of an investigator who had spent years handling high-stakes crisis environments—took over.
Evelyn looked at me, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
I let out a slow, heavy breath, finally turning back toward them. My father was sliding down the railing, his face turning an alarming shade of gray, while my mother screamed incoherently into the afternoon wind, waving her arms at passing pedestrians.
“Call paramedics,” I told Evelyn, pulling my phone back out. But instead of dialing 911, I tapped the secure SEC satellite feed again.
The live-action body-cam footage from the federal raid on Moretti Logistics’ Calumet River warehouse was streaming directly to my screen.
Agents in tactical gear were clearing rows of towering metal shipping crates, hauling out stacks of fraudulent ledgers, and hauling away corporate executives in zip-ties. And right there in the center of the live feed, standing calmly among the federal marshals while barking orders into a secure comms unit, was a man I recognized instantly from my compliance files.
Dominic Moretti.
The CEO of Moretti Logistics. The man whose shipping manifests had been weaponized by Arthur Sterling and my father’s syndicate.
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And as the camera panned across the warehouse floor, Dominic’s dark eyes suddenly locked directly onto the remote drone lens, as if he knew—with terrifying precision—who was watching him from miles away.
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