Chapter 9 - The Harbor Point Showdown
By noon, the rain had cleared, leaving a crisp, biting maritime chill over Harbor Point.
The grand ballroom of the Moretti waterfront complex—the very place where Vincent had kissed Elena two days ago—was now silent and empty, save for a handful of men in dark coats standing near the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the docks.
Viktor Rostov sat at the center mahogany table, swirling amber scotch in a heavy crystal glass. He was a large man with silver-streaked hair, cold gray eyes, and an expression of absolute arrogance.
The heavy double doors swung open.
Vincent Moretti walked in.
And right beside him, stride for stride, walked Claire.
Rostov looked up, a slow, mocking smile spreading across his weathered face. "Vincent! My dear rival. I heard your empire was crumbling from the inside out. I didn't realize you had brought your wife along to witness your execution."
Vincent stepped forward, his presence filling the room with suffocating menace. "You stepped foot in my city, Viktor. That was your first mistake."
"Your city?" Rostov laughed, gesturing to the empty docks outside. "Look around, Moretti. Your ports are frozen by federal mandate. Your board has deserted you. Your public relations puppet is hiding in Europe. You have nothing left."
"He doesn't need Moretti Global to dismantle you, Viktor," a cool, steady voice echoed through the ballroom.
Rostov stopped laughing, his eyes shifting past Vincent to fix on Claire.
Claire stepped into the light, her navy coat buttoned to the chin, her posture impeccable. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a thick manila folder, tossing it onto the table right in front of Rostov.
"What is this?" Rostov frowned, picking up the folder.
"That is a complete ledger of your offshore money-laundering operations through the Baltic shipping routes," Claire said calmly, stepping closer to the table. "Along with federal warrants signed this morning by Marcus Vance, authorizing the immediate seizure of every container ship you currently have at sea."
Rostov’s face went pale. He flipped through the pages, his hands shaking slightly. "This... this is classified intelligence. How did you—?"
"My grandmother owned the land your primary European terminals sit on," Claire said smoothly. "And she kept meticulous records. When you play games in Boston, Viktor, you're playing on Bennett turf."
Rostov slammed the folder shut, standing up furiously and signaling to his armed bodyguards near the door. "Kill them—"
Before Rostov’s men could even reach inside their jackets, the side doors of the ballroom blew open. Daniel Pierce and a dozen elite private security operatives hired by the Bennett estate flooded the room, their weapons raised and trained directly on Rostov’s guards.
At the same time, the heavy glass doors leading to the balcony slid open, revealing federal maritime officers led by Marcus Vance.
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"It’s over, Viktor," Vincent said quietly, stepping forward and resting one hand on Claire’s shoulder. "Put your hands on the table, or my friends will help you."
Rostov looked around the room, realizing he had walked straight into a meticulously baited trap. Defeated, he slowly placed his hands flat on the mahogany table as federal agents moved in to snap handcuffs around his wrists.
