Chapter 13 - THE FINAL THREAT
Three weeks passed in relative peace.
The Moretti Foundation was officially launched, and I spent my days coordinating medical aid for single mothers across Chicago.
My mother’s health had improved dramatically, and she was now able to walk in our garden on sunny afternoons.
Sofia’s baby, Elena, was growing stronger every day, her tiny laughs echoing through the grand hallways.
Luca and I grew closer, sharing quiet dinners in the private parlor after long days of work.
Yet, a persistent sense of unease lingered in the back of my mind.
Arthur Pendelton and Vanessa Bellini were behind bars, but Victor Vance was still awaiting trial in a maximum-security federal holding facility.
Men like Victor Vance didn't go down quietly.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday evening.
The storm clouds rolled in over Lake Michigan, turning the sky the color of slate.
I was working late in my office, reviewing grant approvals for the downtown clinic, when my secure desk phone buzzed.
It was the main security gatehouse downstairs.
“Director Collins,” the head guard’s voice crackled through the intercom, tense and urgent.
“We have a visitor at the perimeter gate.”
“An unverified courier claiming to carry legal documents addressed directly to you.”
My blood ran cold.
“A courier? At this hour?”
“He insists it’s an emergency subpoena from the federal bankruptcy court,” the guard replied.
“He’s refusing to leave without a signature.”
“Don't open the gate,” I said firmly, standing up from my desk.
“I’m coming down.”
When I reached the grand foyer, Luca was already there.
He had just stepped out of the private elevator, wearing a dark wool overcoat, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line.
Marcus stood beside him holding a secure tablet linked to the gate cameras.
“You heard the gatehouse?” Luca asked, looking at me.
“Yes,” I nodded, walking up beside him.
“A courier with a subpoena.”
“It’s not a subpoena,” Luca said coldly, tapping the screen on Marcus’s tablet.
“Look at the reflection in the security camera lens.”
I leaned in closer.
The courier standing in the pouring rain outside the iron gates wasn't carrying a legal briefcase.
He was holding a heavy metallic cylinder—and strapped to his chest beneath his raincoat was a localized signal-jamming device designed to cut off the estate’s satellite communications.
“It’s a localized EMP charge,” Luca said, his voice deadly calm.
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“Victor Vance’s remaining associates are making a desperate play.”
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