Chapter 7 - Ash of the Old Empire
The wreckage of Moretti Manor smelled of cordite, expensive crushed crystal, and the metallic tang of dried blood. Crews of silent, stone-faced men in tailored charcoal suits worked through the debris, sweeping up the remnants of what should have been the most lavish engagement gala the East Coast had seen in three decades.
Instead, it had become the graveyard of Elena Vance’s ambition and Michael Moretti’s birthright.
In the second-floor study, where heavy velvet curtains had been drawn against the harsh midday light, Julian Moretti stood beside the mahogany desk. He ran a thumb over the cracked leather of his father Vincent’s private ledger. Beside him, Allison sat quietly, holding a porcelain teacup. The trembling in her hands had finally stopped, though the pale shadow beneath her cheekbones served as a stark reminder that forty-eight hours ago, cyanide had nearly stopped her heart in the middle of the ballroom.
"You should be resting at the clinic," Julian said, his voice low, gravelly with exhaustion. "Doctor Evans said the neurotoxin puts severe stress on the cardiac lining."
Allison offered a faint, resilient smile. "Rest won't keep us alive, Don Julian. Elena didn’t work alone. And neither did Michael."
The heavy oak doors clicked open. Elliot Ricci walked in, tossing a sleek black encrypted hard drive onto the desk. The illegitimate son of Vincent Moretti looked strikingly like Julian—the same dark, calculating eyes, the same sharp jawline—but Elliot carried the untamed, predatory swagger of the city's south docks.
"The forensic sweep of Michael's penthouse turned up something ugly," Elliot announced, leaning over the desk with both palms pressed into the wood. "The hundred and twenty million dollars wasn't sitting in offshore accounts waiting for Michael and Elena to take a honeymoon in Zurich. Half of it was already wired out three hours before the party started."
Julian’s eyes narrowed into slits of cold ice. "Wired to whom?"
"A shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands called *Acheron Holdings*," Elliot replied. "And guess whose digital signature authorized the release?"
Julian flipped open the ledger. "Not Michael. He didn't have the primary decryption codes."
"Exactly," Elliot said grimly. "Vincent's codes were used. Codes that only three people ever had access to: you, our late father... and the man who ran his private maritime fleet for twenty years."
Allison leaned forward, her breath catching. "Captain Marco Salieri."
Julian felt a bitter chill run down his spine. Salieri was supposed to have drowned in the Hudson five years ago alongside Vincent during the harbor attack. The very tragedy that had propelled Julian to the throne of the Moretti family.
"If Salieri is alive," Julian whispered, "then the hit on my father wasn't an outside cartel ambush. It was an inside execution."
Suddenly, the phone on the desk buzzed violently. It was a secure line connected directly to the convoy escorting Michael to the international freight terminals.
Julian tapped speakerphone. "Speak."
Static hissed through the line, followed by the deafening sound of automatic gunfire and screeching rubber.
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*"Don Julian! We're at Mile Marker 9 outside the bay tunnels!"* the guard screamed over the roar of shattered glass. *"Heavy tactical vehicles—they boxed us in! They didn't come to rescue your brother... they came to finish him! Michael took two rounds to the chest—"*
A concussive blast blew the audio into deafening distortion. Then, total silence fell over the receiver.
