Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Jackals
By 9:00 AM, the Moretti estate looked less like a house in mourning and more like a corporate boardroom staging a hostile takeover.
Black-town cars lined the circular stone driveway three deep. Senior partners, syndicate capos, high-priced corporate attorneys, and local politicians who owed their careers to Giancarlo’s dark influence crowded into the grand foyer.
Upstairs in the master suite, two county coroners—both quietly escorted by Adrian’s private security detail—completed a rapid, superficial examination of the body.
"Preliminary cause of death points to acute myocardial infarction induced by severe cardiac stress," the lead coroner announced, closing his metal clipboard with a sharp snap. "Given Mr. Moretti’s history of high-stress lifestyle and the empty glass beside the bed, toxicology will confirm, but everything indicates natural causes."
Isabella, draped in a tasteful black mourning dress she must have prepared weeks in advance, dabbed her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. "Thank you, Doctor. My husband worked himself to death. It’s a tragedy, but we must respect the medical findings."
Adrian stood directly behind her, resting a protective, proprietary hand on the back of her chair. The assembled board members and syndicate captains watched them with cautious, calculating eyes. Everyone knew the ruthless nature of the Moretti empire; power vacuums in Chicago were never filled quietly.
"With Giancarlo gone," spoke Marcus Vance, the head of the financial division and one of Adrian’s oldest co-conspirators, "the succession clause in the primary holding charter activates immediately. Control reverts to the surviving spouse for a mandatory ninety-day transition period, during which operational authority is delegated to the executive vice-president."
Marcus looked directly at Adrian. "That means Adrian controls the men, the ports, and the logistics network."
Isabella nodded solemnly. "I motion for an immediate emergency vote to ratify Adrian as permanent CEO of Moretti Global, effective immediately."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. The trap was springing shut. In less than twelve hours, Isabella would hold the title to billions in assets, and Adrian would hold the guns. They had won.
"Are there any objections?" Adrian asked, his voice ringing with absolute, intoxicating authority as he stepped forward to the head of the long mahogany conference table.
"I have one," a voice echoed from the double doors.
The heavy oak panels swung wide open.
May you like
The room went dead silent. The air seemed to vanish from the space entirely.
Walking down the center aisle, dressed in a sharp, bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, his silver-streaked hair neatly combed, and a cold, razor-sharp smirk playing across his lips, was Giancarlo Moretti.
