Chapter 6 - Behind the Velvet Curtain
The rain began to fall in sheets over Lake Michigan as Luca’s armored Cadillac Escalade tore through the empty, slick streets of downtown Chicago.
Luca sat beside me in the rear seat, his laptop open, lines of encrypted financial code reflecting off his sharp cheekbones.
Matteo drove, his eyes constantly checking the side mirrors for pursuit. Daniel sat in the front passenger seat, barking orders into two different phones.
“The biometric key can only be duplicated with a physical scan of my hand,” Luca said, his voice flat. “Someone stole the silicone mold from the private safe in my penthouse.”
I watched the city lights streak past the tinted glass.
“Who had access to your penthouse, Mr. Moretti?”
“Only three people,” Luca replied, closing the laptop with a snap. “Daniel, Matteo, and Vanessa.”
“Vanessa had the mold,” I said, piecing it together. “When she stayed there last weekend, she had nearly forty-eight hours alone while you were in Miami.”
Luca nodded slowly. “She gave it to her father’s technical team. They’re transferring the port leases to a Bellini dummy corporation as we speak. If they secure those docks, they can traffic weapons and narcotics through the Great Lakes without any oversight.”
“And frame the Moretti family for the cargo,” Daniel added from the front seat.
The car screeched to a halt in the underground garage of the sixty-story Moretti Tower on Michigan Avenue.
The garage was unnervingly empty. The usual private security guards were missing.
“Stay behind me,” Luca ordered, stepping out of the vehicle and drawing two suppressed handguns.
We took the private express elevator straight to the penthouse on the sixtieth floor.
When the elevator doors slid open, the luxury penthouse was in complete disarray.
Glass coffee tables were shattered. Modern art canvases were slashed. The massive vault door behind the master study stood wide open.
Sitting behind Luca’s executive desk was a man in his late fifties. He wore an immaculate bespoke charcoal suit, silver cuff links, and held an unlit cigar between his teeth.
Flanking him were four heavily armed men in gray suits.
It was Don Vittorio Bellini himself.
“Welcome home, Luca,” Vittorio said with a deep, gravelly voice.
Luca didn't raise his weapon. He stepped into the center of the room, radiating an aura of terrifying calmness.
“You should have stayed in Palermo, Vittorio.”
Vittorio chuckled, blowing a small puff of imaginary smoke.
“And miss the acquisition of the century? Your father was weak, Luca. He let his heart dictate his business. He buried forty million dollars in a children’s trust when he should have bought politicians.”
Vittorio then shifted his cold gaze to me.
“And who is this? The maid who ruined my daughter’s wedding? Vanessa cried like a wounded dog over the radio before your men jammed the signal.”
“She’s not just a maid,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a lethal register. “She’s the reason your daughter is sitting in a cold cell awaiting trial.”
Vittorio smiled thinly, tapping a sleek titanium flash drive resting on the desk.
“It doesn't matter. The transfer is complete. Moretti Shipping belongs to the Bellini Syndicate now. The port authority has already approved the change of operator.”
“Check the confirmation code, Vittorio,” I spoke up, stepping forward despite Matteo’s warning hand.
Vittorio’s brow furrowed. “What did you say, girl?”
“Check the confirmation code on your transfer screen,” I repeated clearly. “The routing number you used from the library had code ninety-nine attached to it.”
Vittorio looked down at the monitor on the desk.
“So what? Ninety-nine is the authorization suffix.”
“No,” I said, a slight, confident smile touching my lips. “In medical billing and maritime corporate law, suffix ninety-nine is a federal audit quarantine flag. The moment you executed that transfer with Daniel’s stolen credentials, you didn't transfer the leases to your shell company.”
Vittorio’s face paled. “What are you talking about?”
“You routed the entire transaction into an escrow lock overseen by the Federal Trade Commission and the Port Authority Fraud Division,” I explained calmly. “The servers are recording every IP hop, every routing node, and every bank account your cartel owns.”
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Vittorio slammed his fists onto the desk.
“Kill them!” he roared to his guards.
