Chapter 8 - The Interception of Justice
While Agent Vance was standing in the mud at Pier 42, watching his career dissolve under the cold gaze of Wall Street attorneys, Aleandro Moretti was sitting in the back of his armored sedan, parked outside a quiet brownstone in Queens.
The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. Marco sat in the driver’s seat, his phone pressed to his ear, listening to the real-time reports from their digital team.
"Vance’s command center in Long Island City has been completely cleared out, Aleandro," Marco said, hanging up the phone and turning around. "We extracted the primary hard drives before they could execute their data-wipe protocol. We have every report Isabella ever sent. We also have the record of the illegal wiretapping permissions Vance signed without a judge's warrant."
"The evidence is poisoned," Aleandro said, his voice flat. "A federal case built on an illegal wire and a personal vendetta won't survive the preliminary hearing. Vance will be suspended by morning."
"And the girl?" Marco asked, his eyes shifting toward the house. "She’s inside the townhouse right now. She left the East 64th Street property twenty minutes after you did. She thinks she’s waiting for a federal extraction team that’s never coming."
Aleandro looked up at the second-floor window of the safe house. A single light was on, casting a long, slender shadow across the blinds. Isabella.
"Stay here, Marco," Aleandro said, opening the car door. "This is a private conversation."
He walked up the concrete steps, the rain dripping from the brim of his fedora. The front door was unlocked—another federal staging protocol. He stepped into the narrow hallway, his leather shoes silent against the carpet, and ascended the stairs toward the light.
Isabella was standing in the middle of a small, sparsely furnished living room, her winter coat already on, a small duffel bag sitting by her feet. Her phone was pressed to her ear, her face pale, her eyes wide with a terrifying, wild panic.
"Christopher! Answer me!" she was whispering into the phone, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "The security cars outside left ten minutes ago. There’s no one here. Where is the van? Christopher!"
"Agent Vance is currently occupied in Brooklyn, Isabella," Aleandro said smoothly, stepping through the open doorway.
Isabella gasped, her phone slipping from her fingers and crashing onto the hardwood floor, the battery popping out. She stumbled back two paces until her spine hit the wall, her hands flying to her mouth, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
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"Aleandro," she choked out, her gaze darting toward the window, looking for an escape that didn't exist. "How... how did you find me?"
"I never lost you, Isabella," Aleandro said, taking off his hat and setting it deliberately on the small side table. He walked into the center of the room, looking at her with a calm, profound sorrow that was far more terrifying than anger. "I’ve known about the wire behind the Venetian harbor since Monday afternoon. A six-year-old girl noticed your red coat, Isabella. That’s all it took to dismantle five years of your uncle’s work."
