Chapter 7 - The Message to Chicago
Two days later, the news of the collapse of the Moretti operation in California sent shockwaves through the underground networks across North America.
Federal agents executed twelve simultaneous search warrants across Chicago, seizing four shipping terminals, forty million dollars in offshore assets, and arresting eight senior lieutenants connected to Marcus Moretti.
In my private study in Bel-Air, the fireplace crackled warmly, casting long golden shadows across the mahogany walls.
I sat behind my desk, holding a secure satellite phone against my ear.
Sitting in the leather chair opposite me was Hector, keeping an eye on the digital tracking maps on his tablet.
On the other end of the line, a deep, raspy voice answered—a voice heavy with age, defeat, and bitter anger.
"Vance," Marcus Moretti spat through the receiver from his compound in Illinois. "You destroyed my brother's life."
"Your brother came into my city, Marcus," I replied effortlessly, taking a slow sip of black coffee. "He bribed a woman to abuse my children and tried to steal my port manifests. He's fortunate he's breathing inside a federal holding cell instead of lying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean."
A long, tense silence stretched across the line. I could hear Moretti’s heavy, labored breathing over the static.
"What do you want, Alexander?" Moretti gritted out through his teeth. "You took my assets. You ruined my shipping corridors. What else do you want?"
I leaned forward over my desk, my voice dropping into that absolute, unyielding tone that left no room for negotiation.
"I want you to liquidate every remaining asset your family holds west of the Rocky Mountains," I dictated smoothly. "I want your resignation from the National Port Alliance by six o'clock tonight. And if I ever hear your family's name mentioned in the same sentence as my daughters again, I won't call the federal authorities."
"Is that a threat?" Moretti growled.
"That is a guarantee," I answered coldly. "You have until six o'clock."
I hung up the phone without waiting for a reply, setting the receiver down onto its base with a quiet, decisive click.
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Hector looked up from his screen, a faint, proud smirk tugging at his lips. "Moretti’s private jet just filed a flight plan for Geneva, boss. He's retiring."
"Good," I said, standing up from my chair and walking toward the study door. "Now let's go join my family for lunch."
