Politicians, judges, and corporate titans across three continents were watching their names, their offshore routing numbers, and their treasonous compacts broadcast across every major news network on Earth.
Marcus set Vincent down against the reinforced hull of an armored transport van.
A field medic rushed forward, tearing open emergency trauma packs to stabilize the billionaire’s internal hemorrhaging.
Emma stood in the biting wind, shivering uncontrollably in her torn, soaked clothes.
She watched as federal agents in tactical gear dragged Jonathan Vance from a drainage culvert near the pier’s northern seawall.
The proud architect of the city’s shadow government looked like a drenched, broken beggar.
His silver hair clung to his face, his customized overcoat was ruined, and his hands were pinned behind his back in zip-ties.
As they marched him toward a waiting prisoner transport, Vance caught sight of Emma standing beside Vincent.
“You think this is over, girl?”
Vance snarled, spitting blood onto the frost.
“You think destroying the ledger frees you?
You don’t even know what your mother took from us!
You don’t know what you are carrying in your blood!”
“Get him moving!” a federal marshal barked, shoving the fallen oligarch into the back of the armored van and slamming the reinforced steel doors shut.
Vincent pulled the oxygen mask from his face, his breathing shallow but steadying.
He reached out and took Emma’s trembling hand, pulling her into the shelter of the van’s interior.
“He was trying to scare you,” Vincent said softly, his deep voice cutting through the howl of the winter wind.
Chapter 105 – The Iron Vault of Michigan Avenue
Forty-eight hours after the raid on the subterranean crypt, Chicago remained in a state of unprecedented paralysis.
The stock exchanges were halted.
Seven sitting state senators, three supreme court judges, and forty-two executive board members across the Fortune 500 had been taken into federal custody under the Espionage and RICO Acts.
The Sterling family had disintegrated completely; Victoria Sterling had been arrested attempting to board a private jet to Zurich under an assumed name, her high-society arrogance reduced to sobbing hysterics before international news cameras.
Yet atop the Moretti Tower, inside the fortress-like penthouse overlooking the snow-covered skyline of Michigan Avenue, the air was suffocatingly quiet.
Vincent Moretti sat at his mahogany desk, his ribs tightly bound beneath an immaculate black silk dress shirt, a cane resting against his chair.
Though his body bore the brutal marks of torture and battle, his presence was once again that of an apex predator.
Across the table sat Emma, dressed in clean, tailored woolen clothes, a warm cup of black tea untouched between her hands.
Between them lay a heavy titanium safety deposit box, salvaged by Marcus’s covert team from the deepest vault of the Sterling-Vance private bank before the feds could freeze the asset.
« Ce coffret a été enregistré il y a soixante ans », dit Vincent en faisant glisser une clé en bronze sur le bois vers elle.
« Elle appartenait à Helena Ward. »
Ta grand-mère.
Emma déglutit, le cœur battant la chamade.
« Tu savais ? »
« Je m’en doutais », répondit honnêtement Vincent.
« Lorsque mon père a fondé Vanguard il y a quarante ans aux côtés de Vance et Sterling, il y avait une quatrième famille. »
Les fondateurs qui ont fourni le capital initial, les titres fonciers souverains et le plan industriel du Chicago moderne.
Les quartiers.
Mais il y a quarante ans, les Ward ont disparu.
L’histoire raconte que leur patriarche devint fou, liquida le domaine et mourut sans le sou.
« Ils les ont assassinés », murmura Emma, tandis que les pièces du puzzle s’assemblaient de façon horrible.
« Vance et Sterling les ont assassinés. »
Et ma mère s’est enfuie dans l’ombre, se cachant à la vue de tous comme une domestique.
« Oui », répondit Vincent doucement.
« Et mon père a vu la scène se produire. »
Il n’a pas appuyé sur la détente, mais il est resté là et a hérité de leur empire.
Voilà la dette que les Moretti vous doivent, Emma.
C’est pourquoi, dès la nuit où vous êtes entré dans cette salle de banquet pour protéger cette vieille dame, vous n’avez jamais été mon employé.
Vous étiez le propriétaire légitime de cette ville.
Emma prit la clé de bronze d’une main tremblante.
Elle l’inséra dans le coffre-fort et le tourna.
Un lourd sifflement pneumatique brisa le silence.
Le couvercle se déverrouilla et s’ouvrit vers le haut pour révéler son contenu.
Il n’y avait ni or, ni liasses de billets.
