Chapter 8 - The Dead Man’s Fingerprint
The rain fell in sheets over the concrete ruins of Mile Marker 9. Flashing red and blue lights illuminated the mangled carcass of the armored Mercedes, its reinforced doors ripped open by military-grade breaching charges.
Julian stepped past the police tape, his long wool coat whipping in the autumn wind. Detectives from the precinct stepped aside without a word; in this part of the state, the Moretti family did not ask for permission to inspect a crime scene. Elliot followed close behind, his hand resting inside his jacket on the grip of his customized Kimber .45.
Inside the backseat of the scorched vehicle, Michael Moretti was slumped against the leather, his white shirt soaked in crimson. Beside him lay two dead Moretti enforcers, each executed with a clean double-tap to the forehead.
Julian reached in, two fingers checking the pulse beneath his brother's jaw.
There was a faint, shallow flutter.
"He's breathing," Julian barked. "Get our private trauma surgical team here now! Lock down the perimeter—nobody touches him except my men!"
As the Moretti medics rushed the stretcher forward, Allison appeared at Julian’s flank, holding an umbrella over the wounded man. As they lifted Michael's bloodied frame, his right hand fell limp against the wet asphalt. Clipped onto his cufflink was a small silver token—an antique coin stamped with an anchor wrapped around a coiled serpent.
Elliot crouched down, picking up the coin with a pocketknife blade. His face paled under the amber flare of the emergency lights. "Marco Salieri's personal calling card. The old bastard really is alive."
"He didn't just want Michael dead," Allison observed, pointing to the interior console of the blown car. "Look at the dashboard scanner. The encrypted tablet with the offshore transfer routes is missing. Whoever attacked this convoy didn't care about the family feud. They wanted the final authorization cipher."
Julian turned to his brother, who opened his eyes weakly through a haze of blood. Michael’s lips moved, struggling for oxygen.
Julian bent low, his ear inches from his brother's mouth. "Michael. Who ordered the hit?"
"Not... not Elena," Michael wheezed, his fingers clawing desperately into Julian's sleeve. "Elena was just the pawn... she thought she was stealing our money to buy her way out... She didn't know... the Syndicate... they never let anyone leave..."
"Which syndicate, Michael? Name them!" Julian demanded.
"The... Silver Anchor..." Michael coughed up blood, his eyes rolling back as the medics began chest compressions. "They took her, Julian... they took Elena from the holding cell an hour ago... she has the master ledger's second key..."
The medics hoisted the stretcher into the armored ambulance, racing into the dark under heavy armed escort.
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Julian stood in the downpour, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood out like iron cables. Elena had betrayed him, poisoned an innocent woman, and conspired to tear down his empire. But she was also the keeper of the final piece of Vincent Moretti's secret fortune. And whoever held Elena held the power to bankrupt the Moretti empire by sunrise.
"Elliot," Julian commanded, his voice turning deadly cold. "Mobilize every soldier we have at the shipyard. Allison, you're with me. We're opening Vincent’s private vault beneath the cathedral."
