Chapter 9 - The House of Cards Collapses
The penthouse suite of the Drake Hotel overlooking Lake Michigan was bathed in the warm glow of designer lamps and expensive scotch.
Richard Vance sat on a leather sofa, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass while he watched the rain streak against the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was a handsome man in his early forties, with sharp features, an expensive tailored suit, and the arrogant smirk of someone who had never lost a battle in his life.
His phone buzzed on the glass coffee table.
He picked it up eagerly, expecting a confirmation call from his strike team in the North Shore estate.
Instead, the screen displayed an incoming video call from an unknown, encrypted number.
Vance frowned, swiping to accept.
The screen didn't show his men.
It showed the grand, vaulted lobby of the Drake Hotel. A dozen men in black tactical gear were calmly stepping out of the private elevators, subduing the night manager and the security desk without firing a single shot. At the front of the formation walked Lorenzo Moretti.
Vance leaped to his feet, spilling his scotch across the glass table.
“What the—”
The heavy oak door of his penthouse suite exploded inward, ripped off its hinges by a powerful kick.
Lorenzo walked into the room.
He didn't run. He didn't shout. He simply walked with the terrifying, inevitable momentum of an avalanche. Behind him, two armed guards flanked the doorway, sealing off any escape.
Vance backed away until his legs hit the back of the sofa, his face draining of all color.
“You... you’re Lorenzo Moretti,” Vance stammered, his voice cracking. “This is a mistake. I’m a legitimate businessman—”
“You sent armed men into my home,” Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “You threatened a child under my roof.”
“She’s my wife! She’s my daughter!” Vance yelled, trying to summon a shred of authority. “She stole from me! She broke the law!”
Lorenzo closed the distance between them in three long strides.
He reached out, grabbing Vance by the lapels of his expensive Italian suit, lifting him half a foot off the floor with one hand as if he weighed nothing at all.
“She doesn't belong to you,” Lorenzo hissed, his face inches from Vance’s terrified eyes. “And neither does the child. You tried to launder money through my port terminals, you tried to buy influence in my city, and you brought violence to my doorstep.”
“Please,” Vance whimpered, his hands clawing uselessly at Lorenzo’s iron grip. “Name your price. A million? Five million? I’ll sign over my entire portfolio—”
“I don't want your money, Richard,” Lorenzo said softly.
He threw Vance across the room. The developer crashed into a mahogany display cabinet, shattering crystal decanters and tumbling to the floor in a heap of broken glass and expensive liquor.
Lorenzo walked over, standing above him, looking down with cold, absolute contempt.
“By morning, your real estate firm will be audited by the federal government, your offshore accounts will be frozen, and every asset you own will be seized under anti-racketeering laws,” Lorenzo said, pulling a heavy silver cigarette case from his pocket. “And if you ever come within five hundred miles of Chicago again, I won't send my men. I’ll handle you myself.”
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Vance curled into a ball on the floor, sobbing in pure terror.
Lorenzo turned on his heel and walked out of the suite, leaving the fallen king of Cincinnati broken in the wreckage of his own ambition.
