Chapter 7 - The Boardroom of Jackals
Upstairs, on the top floor of the gleaming glass-and-steel Moretti Tower in Manhattan, the executive boardroom buzzed with tense, nervous energy. Twelve board members—all wealthy elites, politicians on the take, and high-ranking syndicate capos—sat around the massive mahogany conference table.
At the head of the table sat Marcus Vance. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, his expression a masterpiece of solemn, calculated grief.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marcus began, his voice carrying smoothly across the silent room. “We are all deeply saddened by the tragic medical emergency that has incapacitated our esteemed chairman, Lucas Moretti. As you know, the weight of the past three years—ever since the tragic loss of his wife and son—has taken a severe toll on his health.”
A murmur rippled through the table. Several board members exchanged cautious glances.
“Under the emergency governance clauses of the Moretti Trust,” Marcus continued, sliding a thick stack of legal documents toward the center, “in the event of the chairman’s permanent incapacitation or medical leave, executive control reverts immediately to the COO and surviving senior partner. That is myself.”
He picked up a heavy gold fountain pen, spinning it gracefully between his fingers.
“I propose an immediate, unanimous vote to consolidate all voting shares under my direct supervision, effective immediately. All in favor?”
Before anyone could raise a hand, the heavy double oak doors of the boardroom abruptly blew open with a deafening crash.
The entire room gasped, spinning around in their leather chairs.
Striding down the center aisle was Lucas Moretti.
He wasn't pale, he wasn't dying, and he certainly wasn't incapacitated. His suit was crisp, his gray-blue eyes burned with an icy, terrifying intensity, and behind him marched a heavily armed federal strike force led by none other than Special Agent Sarah Vance—no relation to Marcus, but a federal prosecutor who had spent five years trying to pierce the Moretti veil.
Marcus dropped his pen. It clattered loudly against the mahogany table, rolling to a dead stop.
“L-Lucas?” Marcus stammered, the immaculate mask of absolute control cracking down the middle. “How… how are you here? You were locked in—”
“In a vault you thought I’d never crawl out of?” Lucas finished for him, stopping ten feet from the head of the table. His voice echoed off the glass walls, freezing every man in the room. “Did you really think a few guards and a rusty lock could keep a Moretti down, Marcus?”
Special Agent Sarah Vance stepped forward, flashing a federal badge and a warrant thick enough to stop a bullet.
“Marcus Vance,” she announced clearly, her voice cutting through the stunned silence. “You are under arrest for the premeditated murder of Isabella Moretti and her son Daniel, corporate fraud, insider trading, and conspiracy to commit federal treason.”
Marcus stood up slowly, his eyes darting frantically toward the door, then back to Lucas. The panic was real now, bubbling just beneath his slick exterior.
“You have no proof!” Marcus hissed, regaining a shred of desperate defiance. “The police report called it an accident! The brakes failed! There’s nothing linking me to—!”
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“Except for this,” a calm, steady voice interrupted from the doorway.
The conference room doors opened once more. Walking in slowly, holding a small pink-pajamed hand, was Helena. And skipping beside her, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit, was six-year-old Lily.
