Chapter 12 - A Shot Fired in the Gold Coast Rain
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The words seemed to echo in the damp, cavernous bus terminal long after Luca spoke them.
“...sole ownership and control of the entire Moretti Foundation passes directly to you.”
My legs gave out. I stumbled backward, catching myself against the row of lockers. Luca stepped forward immediately, his arm circling my waist with effortless strength to steady me. His touch was warm, firm, and protective, grounding me against the dizzying weight of what he had just read.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered, staring at the aged parchment bearing the embossed notary seal of Cook County. “I was just a sixteen-year-old girl sitting in a hospital waiting room with greasy hair and patched jeans. My mother was a grocery store cashier making nine dollars an hour. Why would Elena Moretti leave fifty million dollars and a lifetime of humanitarian legacy to strangers?”
Luca looked down at the fading cursive script, his thumb gently tracing his mother’s handwriting.
“Because my mother knew how corrupt this family’s orbit had become,” Luca said softly, his voice thick with reverence. “She knew my father’s brothers were circling her hospital bed like vultures waiting for her heartbeat to stop. She knew that if she named another mafia family member, or a corporate board executive, or a politician like Arthur Bellini as executor, the foundation would be converted into an offshore money-laundering trough within six months of her funeral.”
He looked into my eyes, his gray gaze steady and fierce.
“She trusted your mother because your mother had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Your mother sat beside her when the pain was unbearable, holding her hand, asking for nothing. And when my mother looked at you, Natalie—a hungry teenager who gave her last sandwich to her little brother in that corridor—she saw the soul of what this charity was created to protect.”
Before I could reply, Matteo finished zip-tying Silas Cole’s wrists and walked over, his tactical radio chirping with urgent static.
“Boss,” Matteo said grimly, holding up his phone. “We have an emergency at the corporate headquarters on Wacker Drive.”
Luca’s expression hardened back into cold granite. “What is it?”
“Uncle Silvio called an emergency board session of Moretti Enterprises for six o’clock this morning,” Matteo said. “That’s forty minutes from now. He filed emergency paperwork claiming you’ve been abducted or incapacitated by federal authorities following the incident at the Palmer House. He’s invoking Article Nine of the corporate charter to assume voting control of the shipping terminals and liquidate all charitable subsidiaries before the markets open at eight.”
Luca closed the leather journal with a snap that sounded like a gunshot.
“Silvio thinks he can bury my father’s empire before sunrise,” Luca whispered, a dark, lethal smile touching his lips. “He spent eight years playing the devoted uncle while lining his pockets with cartel payoffs. He thinks because he hired Silas to burn this book, he has silenced the dead.”
He took the compact revolver from my hand, checked the cylinder, and tucked it into his waistband beside his own weapon. Then he pulled the Kevlar vest snug against my chest, his fingers lingering on my collarbone for a fraction of a second.
“Natalie,” he said, his voice dropping into an intimate, solemn tone. “As legal co-trustee of the Elena Moretti Foundation, you have the statutory authority to vote down any liquidation motion at that board table. Silvio has nine board members in his pocket, but the trust holds thirty-five percent of the voting equity. Without your signature, he cannot touch a single cent.”
“Then let’s go give him my answer,” I said, lifting my chin. The fear that had gripped me all night was gone, replaced by a righteous fire I hadn't known I possessed.
We hurried out of the ruined concourse into the cold pre-dawn air. Frank Ramirez’s federal task force was already pulling into the lot, sirens silenced, arresting Silas’s injured crew and securing the explosive evidence.
Ramirez jogged over, his trench coat soaked, but his face split into a victorious grin. “We have Arthur and Vanessa locked in holding cells at the Dirksen Federal Building. The senator’s legal team is screaming, but the judge just signed twelve separate search warrants for their offshore accounts based on the flash drive. Where are you heading, Moretti?”
“To Wacker Drive,” Luca replied, opening the Escalade door for me. “To cut the head off the snake.”
“I’m coming with you,” Ramirez said, signaling his backup cruisers. “Silvio Moretti has three federal sealed indictments waiting for him across state lines. If he steps into that boardroom today, he won't be walking out a free man.”
May you like
The convoy roared to life, speeding north toward the Chicago River as the first gray light of dawn began to crack through the clouds over Lake Michigan.
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