Chapter 13 - THE GALAS OF THE CONDEMNED
The crystal chandeliers of The Leviathan’s grand ballroom cast a blinding, diamond-like brilliance across thirty glittering guests dressed in bespoke Italian tuxedos and evening gowns.
Champagne flutes chimed.
Laughter echoed against the mahogany walls.
At the head of the banquet table, sitting in a high-backed velvet chair upholstered in crimson silk, was Victor Moretti.
Seventy years old.
Silver hair slicked back with ruthless precision, wearing a white dinner jacket adorned with an emerald lapel pin, he looked like an aging emperor presiding over a collapsing empire.
When the heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open with a loud, echoing bang, the Vivaldi string quartet cut off mid-note.
Thirty pairs of aristocratic eyes whipped around in unison.
Christian Vance strode across the polished parquet floor like a tidal wave breaking over a glass city.
His dark tactical jacket was unzipped, revealing the solid black shirt beneath and the heavy leather holster strapped securely beneath his left arm.
I walked right beside him, my head held high, my fingers resting lightly against the silver signet ring on my right hand.
Moretti did not flinch.
He didn't drop his crystal champagne flute.
Instead, a slow, yellow-toothed smile stretched across his weathered, leathery face.
“Christian,” Moretti purred, his voice like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “I wondered when the stray dog would finally find his way back to the master’s kennel.”
Christian stopped ten feet from the head of the table.
“You’ve lived twenty years too long, Moretti,” Christian said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, subterranean register that made the surrounding guests step back in frozen terror.
“Have I?” Moretti chuckled, raising his champagne flute in a mock toast. “And yet, here you are, standing on my vessel without a single armed guard, while my legal team in Geneva holds the adoption papers granting me full custody of little Sofia Vance.”
Moretti snapped his fingers.
A nervous corporate lawyer standing behind him stepped forward, holding a thick leather-bound folio stamped with the official wax seal of the Swiss federal court.
“By international maritime decree,” the lawyer announced, his voice trembling slightly, “Victor Moretti is hereby designated sole legal guardian and trustee of the Vance-Conti estate—”
Bang.
A single gunshot shattered the crystal chandelier directly above the lawyer’s head, sending a glittering rain of glass shards cascading across the banquet table.
The guests screamed, diving beneath tables and scrambling toward the exit doors.
Moretti’s smile vanished instantly.
He whipped his head toward the entrance.
Standing in the open doorway, holding a smoking Sig Sauer P226 with absolute calm, was Miller, flanked by four armed carabinieri officers in full tactical gear.
“Your jurisdiction just expired, counselor,” Miller announced coldly, stepping into the room.
Moretti scrambled backward out of his crimson velvet chair, his hands flying toward his dinner jacket pocket where a concealed pearl-handled revolver rested.
Before his fingers could wrap around the grip, Christian closed the distance between them with terrifying speed.
He grabbed Moretti by the lapels of his white dinner jacket, hauled him bodily across the length of the mahogany table, and slammed him down against the far bulkhead with a force that rattled the ship's steel ribs.
“You tried to steal my family twice, Victor,” Christian whispered, pressing the barrel of his pistol directly beneath Moretti’s chin. “And today, your luck finally runs out.”
Moretti gasped for air, his eyes wide with animal terror as he stared into the green fire of Christian’s unblinking gaze.
“The... the files... on Sofia... are in the safe,” Moretti choked out. “Spare me... and I’ll give you the keys.”
Christian didn't blink.
He reached into Moretti’s breast pocket, pulled out the digital master keycard, and tossed it straight to me.
“Maya,” Christian commanded without taking his eyes off the aging syndicate boss. “Open the wall safe behind the portrait.”
I crossed the room, pressed the keycard against the biometric panel disguised behind an oil painting of a nineteenth-century sailing ship, and watched the heavy steel vault door swing open.
Inside sat the original 1998 Genoa shipping ledgers, the medical adoption papers, and—resting right on top—a thick, sealed manila folder labeled in bold red ink:
GABRIEL VANCE — CASE CLOSED.
I picked up the folder, my hands trembling slightly as I pulled out the autopsy photographs and police reports from the 2021 car bombing that had killed Sofia’s parents.
One document caught my eye instantly.
A signed confession bearing the signature of Victor Moretti’s chief enforcer—and co-signed by Commander Richard Vance.
They hadn't just been rivals.
They had been partners in assassinating Christian’s brother to seize control of the Atlantic corridors.
I walked slowly back to the center of the room, handing the documents directly to Christian.
Christian glanced down at the signatures.
May you like
The last trace of mercy in his pale green eyes turned to absolute ice.
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