Chapter 8 - The Clean Sweep
The rain had stopped by four in the morning, leaving Gary Airfield drenched in a heavy, freezing fog that rolled off Lake Michigan.
By sunrise, the tarmac was clean.
In my world, clean didn't mean calling the police. Clean meant three heavy commercial incinerator trucks arriving from a private sanitation firm owned by the Moretti family. It meant Viktor Sokolov and his dead guards disappearing into the dark historical archives of unsolved missing persons cases. It meant the Gulfstream jet being towed into a private hangar, stripped of its registration numbers, and dismantled for scrap metal.
I stood near the edge of the runway, watching the sun break through the gray clouds over the water.
I wore a fresh black suit that Marco had brought from the city. My face was scrubbed clean of blood, but the hollow, aching void in my chest felt permanent.
Marcus walked up beside me, holding a black leather briefcase. Inside was the master ledger Roman had brought to the plane, along with Roman's personal encrypted hard drive.
"The Russian servers in Moscow have been wiped," Marcus reported quietly, handing me a secure tablet. "Our IT team deployed a thermal virus through Sokolov’s network connection before his men could decrypt the secondary files. The ledger is secure, Adrian. No one outside this airfield knows what was on those pages."
"And Roman?" I asked, staring out at the horizon.
Marcus hesitated softly. "His body has been transported to a private mortuary in suburban Cook County. Under a false name. We can bury him quietly in a private plot outside the family crypt."
"No," I said softly.
Marcus looked surprised. "No?"
"He didn't want to be a Moretti in life," I said, my voice steady. "I won't force him to be one in death. Cremate him. Scatter his ashes over Lake Michigan. Let him finally be free of this family."
"Understood, boss."
"What about Vanessa?" I asked, turning back to face him.
"She's still locked in the wine cellar at the estate," Marcus replied, his eyes narrowing. "She hasn't said a word since Marco locked the door. What do you want to do with her?"
I looked down at my watch. 6:30 AM.
"Bring the car," I said. "It's time to close the accounts."
An hour later, the Lincoln Continental pulled into the courtyard of the Moretti Mansion. The morning sun was reflecting off the stained-glass windows, making the grand estate look bright and glorious.
I walked into the house alone.
The marble foyer had been cleaned. The broken glass from Mrs. Dalton’s tea pitcher was gone, the wet floor dried and polished.
I walked down the service stairs to the subterranean wine cellar beneath the east wing. The heavy iron door was guarded by two armed enforcers. They stood at attention as I approached, keycard in hand.
"Unlock it," I ordered.
The guard swiped the card. The heavy steel door clicked open.
I stepped into the cold, stone-walled cellar. The room was lined with thousands of expensive bottles of wine, smelling of old oak and earth.
Sitting on a wooden chair in the center of the room was Vanessa. Her silk dress was wrinkled, her makeup smeared, her hair disheveled. She looked stripped of every ounce of aristocratic elegance she had spent eleven years cultivating.
When she heard the door open, she looked up.
She looked at my pristine black suit. She looked at my face.
And she knew.
"He's dead, isn't he?" Vanessa whispered, her voice dry and raspy.
"Sokolov shot him," I said, standing ten feet away from her, my hands tucked into my coat pockets. "Before Roman could hand over the ledger."
Vanessa let out a soft, bitter laugh, resting her head against the back of the chair. "Foolish boy. I told him Sokolov couldn't be trusted. I told him to deal with the Italians in New York instead."
"You used him, Vanessa," I said quietly. "Just like you used my father. Just like you tried to use me."
Vanessa looked up at me, her dark eyes hollow. "So what happens now, Adrian? Are you going to shoot me in the basement? Put a bullet in your father's widow and dump me in the river?"
"No," I replied softly.
Vanessa blinked, genuine surprise flickering across her pale face. "You're letting me live?"
"Living is a much harsher punishment for a woman like you," I said.
I pulled a white envelope from my coat pocket and dropped it onto her lap.
"Inside that envelope is a one-way ticket to a small town in northern Alaska," I explained, my voice devoid of anger, holding only cold, absolute finality. "There is also a deed to a one-bedroom cabin and a bank account containing two thousand dollars a month—just enough to buy food, heating oil, and basic clothes."
Vanessa stared at the envelope as if it were a venomous snake. "Alaska?! You're exiling me to a wilderness?!"
"You have two choices, Vanessa," I said, turning toward the door. "You take that ticket, get on the plane in three hours, and live the rest of your miserable life in freezing obscurity... or I hand you over to Sokolov’s remaining lieutenant, who believes you were the one who set up their boss at the airfield."
Vanessa’s breath hitched in her throat. Her hands began to shake as she looked down at the envelope. She knew what the Russian Syndicate did to people who set up their bosses.
"You're a monster, Adrian," she whispered, her voice trembling with profound terror.
I stopped at the doorway, looking back at her over my shoulder.
May you like
"I learned from the best," I said softly.
I walked out of the cellar, and the heavy steel door clicked shut behind me, locking her into the dark forever.
