Chapter 8 - The Master Stroke
Vincent stood completely still in the rain-soaked darkness of the warehouse.
Moretti laughed loudly, enjoying what he believed was his total victory over the king of the city.
“Tick-tock, Vincent!” Moretti shouted. “Sign the papers on the barrel, or watch your new little family sleep forever!”
Vincent slowly raised his head.
And then... he smiled.
It was not a smile of defeat. It was the terrifying, cold smile of a grandmaster who had just baited his opponent into taking a useless pawn.
“You always were a terrible strategist, Frank,” Vincent said softly.
Moretti’s laughter sputtered out. “What?”
Vincent reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small silver radio device, flipping a switch.
A voice came through the speaker—clear, warm, and vibrant:
“Vincent? We’re eating chocolate cake in the 50th-floor safe penthouse. Maddie says hello!”
It was Clare’s voice.
Moretti stared at the remote in his hand, his jaw dropping in utter shock. “What? That’s impossible! The ventilation system—”
“Arthur Pendelton was audited three weeks ago, Frank,” Vincent explained, taking a slow step toward the crane. “The moment Maddie stopped the assassin at the blue door, I checked every manager’s financial records. Arthur was swimming in gambling debts from your casinos.”
Vincent looked over at Arthur, who was weeping quietly on the floor.
“I let Arthur stay in his job,” Vincent continued smoothly. “I gave him fake override codes for the 40th floor. Clare and Maddie were moved to the unlisted 50th-floor bunker ten days ago.”
Moretti’s face turned from pale white to deep, furious purple. “Shoot him! Kill him now!”
Before the six mercenaries around the crane cab could raise their rifles, the corrugated metal roof of the warehouse was blown open with a deafening BOOM.
Tactical stun grenades rained down from the ceiling, exploding in blinding flashes of light and concussive sound.
Dozens of federal tactical officers, alongside Dominic’s security teams, dropped down on tactical ropes, securing the warehouse floor within fifteen seconds.
Federal Agent Sarah Miller walked into the warehouse, holding a federal arrest warrant.
“Frank Moretti!” Agent Miller announced through a megaphone. “You are under arrest for domestic terrorism, extortion, and attempted murder!”
Moretti sat frozen in his crane cab, surrounded by federal lasers pointing directly at his chest.
He looked down at Vincent Caruso, who stood calmly below, unbothered, uninjured, and completely victorious.
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“How?” Moretti croaked, his voice trembling. “The feds... they were building a case against you!”
“I gave them a better case, Frank,” Vincent said softly, stepping toward the exit. “I gave them you.”
