Chapter 9 - Reclaiming Freedom
In the private VIP lounge on the third floor of the hotel, Anthony Moretti sat on a leather sofa, smoking a thick cigar. He was an older man with a pockmarked face and a arrogant, cruel smirk. His six bodyguards stood around him, their hands resting inside their jackets.
The double doors of the lounge opened smoothly, and Emma Vance walked in alone.
Moretti looked up, his smirk widening as he saw the young woman in the ballroom gown. "Ah, the famous Emma Vance. The little orphan girl Marcus plucked from the highway. I must admit, the rumors didn't do your beauty justice."
Emma didn't smile. She walked calmly to the center of the room, stopping ten feet from his sofa. Her posture was completely relaxed, yet her eyes held an intensity that made Moretti’s bodyguards shift uncomfortably.
"Anthony Moretti," Emma said, her voice smooth and clear. "You entered this establishment without an invitation. You brought weapons into a peaceful gathering. Give me one reason why I shouldn't have my men throw you from the roof of this hotel."
Moretti laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You talk tough for a little girl, sweetie. You think because Marcus gives you a fancy title, you run this city? The Morettis were ruling these streets while you were still sleeping in gutters. We came to deliver a message to Marcus. The shipping docks in Brooklyn belong to us now. If he doesn't like it, we can turn this beautiful party into a funeral."
Emma took a slow breath. She reached into her small evening clutch, pulled out a sleek, white digital tablet, and tapped the screen twice.
"As of 8:15 PM tonight—exactly twelve minutes ago," Emma said calmly, reading from the screen, "the federal authorities executed twenty-four simultaneous raid warrants across all Moretti shipping warehouses in Brooklyn, Queens, and Newark."
Moretti froze, his cigar dropping from his fingers. "What?"
"I spent the last six months compiling a comprehensive financial dossier on your family’s illegal operations," Emma continued, her voice holding the absolute chill of a winter wind. "Every offshore account, every smuggled shipment, every bribed politician on your payroll. I delivered the encrypted files to the federal prosecutor’s office yesterday morning."
"You... you dirty little rat!" Moretti roared, standing up, his face turning an angry purple. "Kill her!"
His lead bodyguard reached into his jacket to draw his weapon.
But Emma was faster.
With a movement so quick it blurred the eyes, she reached into the thigh slit of her gown, drew a small, compact customized pistol from a hidden garter holster, and fired three times before the guard’s gun could clear leather.
Phut. Phut. Phut.
The suppressed rounds struck the lead guard and the two men beside him in their shoulders, shattering their collarbones and dropping them to the floor in groans of agony. The remaining three bodyguards froze, their hands hovering in mid-air, looking down into the barrel of Emma’s gun.
The lounge doors flew open, and Victor burst in with a squad of ten Vance tactical security officers, their assault rifles raised, instantly pinning the remaining guards to the ground.
Emma lowered her weapon, looking down at the trembling, ruined old Don on the sofa.
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"Your empire is finished, Anthony," Emma said softly, her voice carrying the absolute authority of a queen. "Your men are incapacitated, your assets are frozen, and you will spend the rest of your life in a maximum-security prison cell. The Vance family doesn't fight wars with blood anymore. We fight them with intelligence. Now, get out of my city."
Moretti fell back onto the sofa, completely broken, realizing that the little girl they had all ignored on the highway years ago had just completely dismantled his entire family legacy with a single click of a button.
