Chapter 7 - The Philadelphia Audit
Frank Moretti ran his operation out of a converted meatpacking plant in South Philadelphia. He was an old-school mobster—loud, arrogant, and convinced that brute force could solve any strategic problem.
He didn't understand spreadsheets.
Two days after the theft at Dock 42, I sat in the command center of Masimo’s private jet as we flew low over the Pennsylvania border. Beside me, Masimo was reviewing a digital layout of Moretti’s primary distribution hub.
“Moretti uses three regional banks in Delaware to launder his hijacking profits,” I explained, pointing to a series of transaction trees on my monitor. “He thinks because he splits the deposits into amounts under ten thousand dollars, the federal reporting software won't flag them.”
“Structured deposits,” Masimo noted, sipping his dark espresso.
“Exactly,” I said. “It’s sloppy. It took me forty minutes to track his primary holding account in Wilmington. He has eleven million dollars resting in a commercial credit account tied to his meatpacking plant.”
“And you can freeze it?”
“I can do better than freeze it,” I smiled wickedly. “I can execute an automated tax levy through an anonymous tip to the IRS Criminal Investigation Division while simultaneously triggering a margin call on his credit line.”
Masimo set his cup down and stared at me, his eyes filled with pure, unadulterated admiration.
“You’re terrifying, woman,” he laughed softly.
“I’m effective,” I corrected. “While you and Carlo take your men to recover the two containers from his warehouse tonight, I will drain Frank Moretti’s operating liquidity. By the time you step through his front door, he won't even have enough cash left to pay his lawyers.”
That night, the sky over South Philadelphia was dark and heavy with fog.
I stayed inside the armored command vehicle parked two blocks from the meatpacking plant, monitoring the financial feeds on three laptops. Leo was safely asleep back in Manhattan under Rosa’s watchful eye, leaving me completely free to focus on destruction.
At 11:45 p.m., I hit the final key on my keyboard.
Across the state line in Wilmington, eleven million dollars vanished from Frank Moretti’s accounts as federal freezing orders took effect. His automated payroll bounced, his credit lines were canceled, and three state tax inspectors simultaneously initiated emergency audits on his properties.
Through my headset, I heard the sudden crack of breaching charges as Masimo’s team hit the front entrance of the meatpacking plant.
“Command, this is Carlo,” his voice came through the radio. “We’re inside. Resistance is minimal. Moretti’s men are arguing over unpaid wages.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Tell them their paychecks didn't bounce by accident.”
Ten minutes later, the radio clicked again.
“Alessandra,” Masimo’s deep, smooth voice echoed through my earpiece. “The containers are secured. Frank Moretti is sitting on a crate in front of me, crying about a letter he just received from the Department of Revenue.”
May you like
“Tell Frank that’s what happens when you steal from Midtown,” I said softly into the microphone.
“He hears you,” Masimo replied, a dark chuckle in his voice. “We’re coming home, my love.”
