Chapter 4 - The Boardroom ExecutionAt 10:00 AM, the top floor of the Moretti Commercial Tower in downtown Milwaukee was in absolute, chaotic ruin.
Twelve senior syndicate bosses, casino operators, and legal representatives sat around a thirty-foot mahogany conference table, arguing frantically over news reports of sudden federal asset freezes.
Sitting at the head of the table was Roman Moretti.
He looked hollowed out, unkempt, and terrifying. His dark suit was wrinkled, dark purple circles carved beneath his bloodshot eyes, his jaw covered in dark stubble. He hadn't slept for a single second in fourteen hours.
"Find them!" Roman roared, slamming his palm flat against the table, making the glasses rattle. "I don't care if you have to search every house in Chicago! I want my daughter back! I want my wife!"
"Boss!" Marco burst through the double glass doors, his face dead white, holding a tablet. "The federal prosecutors just executed a master seizure order on Pier 7! All offshore accounts under Laya Crane’s name have been locked!"
Before Roman could speak, Laya Crane pushed past the guards, her hair disheveled, her expensive makeup ruined by tears of panic.
"Roman!" Laya shrieked, clutching her designer bag against her chest. "What is happening?! The bank just declined my card at the boutique! They said my accounts are frozen under a federal warrant!"
Roman slowly turned his head to look at her.
For six months, he had found her charming, beautiful, and attentive. Now, looking at her frantic, self-absorbed panic while his six-day-old daughter was missing, a wave of profound, sickening disgust washed over his chest.
"Get out of my face, Laya," Roman rasped out, his baritone cold as death.
"What?!" Laya gasped, taking a step back. "Roman! I came here because the police are at my apartment! You promised you would take care of me!"
"I said GET OUT!" Roman bellowed, his voice echoing through the glass suite like a thunderclap.
The heavy double doors swung open again.
Two uniformed Federal Marshals, accompanied by Julian Vance, walked cleanly into the executive boardroom.
The twelve syndicate bosses froze in their seats, their hands reaching instinctively toward their coats, but Julian raised his hand calmly.
"Roman Moretti," Julian announced, his voice smooth and absolute. "You have been formally served."
Julian stepped forward, dropping a thick white leather folder flat onto the center of the mahogany table.
Roman stared at the folder. Across the front, printed in bold crimson letters, was the official judicial header:
[COOK COUNTY FAMILY COURT: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE & PERMANENT SOLE CUSTODY — AARON MORETTI V. ROMAN MORETTI.]
Attached beneath the petition was a secondary federal subpoena ordering Roman's immediate appearance for grand jury questioning.
Roman’s hands trembled violently as he opened the folder.
May you like
Inside sat a high-resolution photograph taken three hours earlier—a picture of me sitting in a warm, sunlit nursery in Lake Forest, holding six-day-old Sophie in my arms, both of us safe, radiant, and completely beyond his reach.
Roman collapsed back into his leather armchair, a choked, broken sob tearing from his throat as he stared at the picture of the daughter he had abandoned for a party.
Related Stories
