Chapter 8 - The Fall of Moretti’s Empire
Victor Moretti was sixty-eight years old, sitting in his penthouse office overlooking the Chicago riverfront, nursing a glass of scotch and waiting for the phone to ring with news that Hawthorne Ridge had been breached.
Instead, his private elevator chime dinged.
Moretti frowned, setting his glass down on the mahogany desk and reaching for the revolver in his top drawer. "Who's down there?" he muttered into his desk intercom.
There was no answer from the security desk downstairs. Just static.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open with a smooth, whisper-quiet hiss.
There were no masked hit squads stepping out. Just Adrian Mercer, wearing his dark overcoat, walking out of the elevator with his hands casually buried in his pockets. Behind him walked Marcus and two armed enforcers, dragging a bound and gagged operative between them. And trotting right at Mercer’s side, perfectly calm, was a massive black Cane Corso.
Moretti’s face drained of all color. He yanked the drawer open, his hand clawing for the revolver.
"I wouldn't do that, Victor," Mercer said smoothly, stopping ten feet away from the desk.
Before Moretti's fingers could wrap around the grip of the gun, Bruno let out a low, vibrating growl that shook the glass decanters on Moretti’s bar cart. The dog didn't lunge. He just stared at the aging boss with cold, yellow-brown eyes that promised absolute destruction if he so much as twitched.
Moretti froze, his hand hovering over the drawer, sweat beading instantly across his wrinkled forehead. "Mercer... how the hell did you get past my lobby security?"
"Your security guards are currently taking a very long nap in the basement parking garage," Mercer said, stepping closer and resting both hands flat on Moretti’s desk, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. "You made a very critical error tonight, Victor."
"What are you talking about?" Moretti blustered, trying to keep his voice steady. "Business is business. Territories shift—"
"You sent armed men into a home where a three-year-old child was sleeping," Mercer whispered, his voice dropping into a register so cold it made the air in the room feel sub-zero. "That isn't business. That's a violation of every unwritten rule this city was built on."
"She's just a servant's kid!" Moretti shouted, panic finally breaking through his hardened facade.
Mercer didn't blink. He reached out with lightning speed, grabbed Moretti by the lapels of his expensive silk suit, and yanked him across the desk until the older man was choking on his own collar.
"She is under my roof," Mercer snarled, his gray eyes flashing with lethal fury. "Which means she is under my protection. And anyone who threatens what is mine doesn't get a warning next time, Victor. They get erased."
Mercer shoved Moretti back into his leather chair with enough force to send it crashing against the wood paneling behind him. Moretti slumped forward, gasping for air, his empire crumbling around him in less than sixty seconds.
"Here is how this ends," Mercer said, straightening his cuffs and turning toward the elevator. "Your shipping docks in the south district are mine as of midnight. Your accounts in the Caymans are being transferred to a blind trust under my control by morning. And if I ever hear the name Victor Moretti spoken in the state of Illinois again, I won't send my men."
May you like
Mercer paused at the elevator doors, glancing back over his shoulder with a chilling smile.
"I'll let the dog handle it."
