Because while you were busy playing hero for that common little waitress, my men paid a visit to her grandmother’s nursing home in Evanston.”
Emma’s heart stopped.
She gasped, grabbing Vincent’s arm, her face draining of all color.
“Grandma…!”
Vance laughed softly, a terrifying sound that chilled the air on the terrace.
“Your sweet grandmother is currently sitting in a private jet on the runway at O’Hare, Emma dear.
If you and Vincent want to see her draw another breath, you will walk out of that tower unarmed, with your hands above your heads, in exactly thirty minutes.
If you are one second late… the jet takes off for a destination where international law does not exist.”
The call clicked dead.
Chapter 42 – The Thirty-Minute Clock
The sound of Emma’s stifled sobs cut through the cold air of the penthouse terrace, sharper than any blade.
She gripped Vincent’s lapels, her knuckles white, her body trembling with a terror she had never known before.
“Vincent, he has her,” she whispered, her voice fracturing.
“He took her from the nursing home… she’s frail, she can’t survive this.
We have to go down.
We have to give them whatever they want!”
Vincent looked down at her, his expression carved from dark granite.
His silver-gray eyes, usually impenetrable, flared with a murderous intensity that would have made any grown man flinch.
He did not pull away; instead, he brought his hands up to cup her face, his thumbs gently wiping away her tears.
“Listen to me, Emma,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a deadly, steady register that brooked no argument.
“Look at me.”
Emma blinked through her tears, locking eyes with him.
“Marcus Vance does not let hostages walk away,” Vincent said calmly.
“If we walk down those stairs unarmed with our hands up, you and I die in the lobby under the guise of resisting arrest, and your grandmother never leaves that tarmac alive.
That is how men like Vance operate.
He does not negotiate from mercy.
He only respects leverage.”
“Then what do we do?”
Emma choked out.
“We have less than twenty-eight minutes!”
Vincent reached inside his tailored coat, pulled out a small titanium keycard, and turned toward the terrace elevator.
He tapped his earpiece, bringing up an encrypted channel that bypassed every public communications network in Illinois.
“Matteo,” Vincent spoke into the comms.
“Code Zero.
Vance has breached Evanston and taken a hostage to Hangar 7 at O’Hare.
The feds are at the perimeter of the tower.”
Matteo’s voice came back instantly, stripped of all warmth.
“The Chicago field office has three tactical units mobilizing in the lobby right now, boss.
They have an emergency warrant signed by a federal magistrate aligned with Vance’s PAC.
We can’t use the helipad.
Federal snipers have eyes on the roof from the adjacent high-rise.”
“We were never going to use the helipad,” Vincent replied coldly.
“Initiate the sub-level transit line.
Cut all power to the main elevator banks in two minutes.
Trap their breach team in the lobby.”
“Understood.
What about the jet at O’Hare?”
Vincent guided Emma toward the private service elevator concealed behind the marble wall of the dining room.
“I will handle the runway myself.
Get the decoy convoy rolling out of the north garage.
Give them something to chase.”
As the hidden elevator doors slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss, Vincent took Emma’s hand in his.
Her fingers were freezing, but as she looked at him, she saw no doubt in his posture—only a lethal, calculated focus.
Chapter 43 – Out of the Shadows
The private service elevator bypassed all ninety floors of the Moretti Tower, descending straight past the commercial levels, the private garages, and into the sub-basement five stories beneath the Chicago street grid.
Above them, the muted thuds of flashbangs and tactical boots rattled faintly through the concrete slabs.
The federal assault team had breached the grand lobby, only to find the power cut and the primary elevators dead.
At the same time, three armored black SUVs roared out of the tower’s northern exit into the morning drizzle, immediately drawing half a dozen law enforcement cruisers into a high-speed pursuit toward Lake Shore Drive.
None of those vehicles contained Vincent Moretti.
When the elevator doors slid open in the damp, cool air of the subterranean tunnel, two of Vincent’s elite private security operators were waiting, dressed in unbranded tactical gear, holding heavy bags.
“Mr.
Moretti,” one of them nodded, offering a low-profile Kevlar vest to Emma and an assault pack to Vincent.
“The freight railway beneath the river is clear.
We have the modified rail-runner prepped.”
