Chapter 7 - The Billionaire's Fortress
The Park Avenue skyscraper owned by Sterling Global Logistics towered sixty stories above the Manhattan pavement, a monolith of gleaming glass and polished steel that radiated wealth and corporate arrogance. Security here was not handled by street thugs with cheap handguns; it was maintained by ex-military private security contractors wearing tactical gear and carrying state-of-the-art encrypted communications.
My armored black sedan slid silently into the underground VIP parking garage. Luca and four of my best enforcers flanked me as I stepped out, our footsteps echoing sharply against the concrete floor. The garage security guards barely had time to reach for their holstered sidearms before Luca and his men moved with ruthless, practiced efficiency, pinning them against the concrete and relieving them of their weapons without firing a single shot.
"Third-floor executive elevator is locked down, Boss," Luca reported, tapping a small keycard he had lifted from the head guard's belt. "Sterling's private penthouse suite occupies the top two floors. His personal biometric scanner is the only thing that opens the penthouse doors."
"We won't need his scanner," I said, stepping into the elevator car. "We'll use his front door the old-fashioned way."
As the elevator ascended rapidly to the sixtieth floor, I reflected on the irony of the situation. For three years, Arthur Sterling had sat in his ivory tower, watching my every move through a microscopic fiber-optic lens embedded in my spine, laughing at how easily he manipulated the great Dante Moretti. He had traded on my intelligence, my reputation, and my blood. Tonight, the ledger was going to be balanced in full.
The elevator chimed softly, and the stainless-steel doors slid open to reveal a sprawling, minimalist penthouse designed with white marble, modernist art, and a wall of glass looking out over the glittering skyline of New York City. Two private bodyguards standing near the mahogany reception desk spun around instantly, their submachine guns coming up.
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They were fast, but my enforcers were faster. Two muffled cracks from suppressed barrels echoed through the luxurious room, and both guards crumpled silently onto the white marble floor.
I stepped over their bodies, walking calmly toward the grand double doors leading to Sterling’s private study. I raised my heavy leather-gloved hand and kicked the mahogany doors open with a thunderous crash that rattled the modern art on the walls.
