Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Brighton BeachTwo weeks inside the Moretti estate taught me two things: first, that a mafia fortress is ironically the safest place on earth; and second, that Vincent Moretti was nothing like the ruthless tyrant the newspapers made him out to be.
True to his word, Anthony’s legal team processed an expedited, ironclad annulment and divorce within forty-eight hours, citing extreme domestic abuse, felony money laundering, and corporate fraud. Marcus had no legal ground to fight back, locked away in an undisclosed black site where his signature was secured under threat of permanent silence.
I spent my afternoons walking through the sprawling rose gardens behind the main mansion, accompanied by two silent, suits-wearing guards who kept a respectful distance. My broken arm was healing well under the care of Dr. Sterling, a private trauma surgeon who visited the estate every morning.
It was a crisp Thursday afternoon when the past finally caught up to us.
I was sitting in the glass-enclosed sunroom, sipping herbal tea and reading a book on art history, when heavy footsteps echoed down the marble hallway.
The double doors swung open, and Anthony Moretti strode in, his face tighter and angrier than I had ever seen it. Behind him walked a tall, imposing man with slicked-back blonde hair, wearing an expensive white linen suit and flanked by two heavily tattooed brutes wearing shoulder holsters.
Dmitri Sokolov.
Even without knowing his name, I recognized the terrifying aura of the Russian Bratva. I had served him coffee twice at the downtown diner when he met with Marcus in the back booth.
“Vincent isn't here, Anthony,” I said, instinctively pulling my cast-wrapped arm closer to my body.
“I know he’s not, sweetheart,” Dmitri spoke in heavily accented, smooth English, stepping further into the sunroom with a predatory grin. “We didn't come to see the boss. We came to talk to the little bird who used to serve us coffee.”
Anthony stepped in front of me instantly, his hand resting casually inside his jacket where his Glock was holstered. “Watch your mouth, Dmitri. You’re standing on Moretti property. If you take one more step toward Miss Lena, I’ll feed you to the estate dogs.”
Dmitri raised his hands in mock surrender, laughing darkly. “Relax, little Moretti. We just want what belongs to us. Marcus Gallagher stole two million dollars of Brighton Beach money before your boss locked him in a box. Where is the thumb drive? Where did Marcus hide the ledger?”
I froze.
A thumb drive? Marcus had never mentioned a thumb drive to me.
“She doesn't know anything about your stolen money, Dmitri,” Anthony hissed, his eyes flashing with lethal intent. “Now get the fuck out of this house before Vincent gets back and turns your entire crew into fertilizer.”
Dmitri’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, ugly snarl. He reached inside his white jacket—
Click.
The sharp, metallic sound of four distinct firearm hammers pulling back echoed through the sunroom simultaneously.
From behind the massive potted ficus trees and the doorway archways, four of Vincent’s elite snipers had materialized out of thin air, their laser sights painting red dots across Dmitri’s chest and forehead.
Dmitri’s hand froze inside his jacket. Beads of cold sweat broke out across his forehead. He realized, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that walking into the Moretti estate was the last mistake he would ever make.
“Drop your weapon, Dmitri,” a voice rang out from the doorway.
Vincent Moretti stepped into the sunroom.
He wasn't wearing his overcoat. He wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousers, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. But the absolute stillness in his posture made him look infinitely more dangerous than any army.
Vincent walked slowly past Anthony, stopping three feet away from Dmitri Sokolov.
“You have a lot of nerve, Dmitri,” Vincent said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Coming into my home. Threatening a guest under my roof.”
“Vincent... listen,” Dmitri stammered, his bravado entirely evaporated. “Marcus Gallagher stole from us! We just want the drive—”
“Marcus Gallagher worked for me the moment he started laundering money in my city without paying tribute,” Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into a chilling register. “That makes his debts my debts. And his property my property.”
Vincent turned his head slightly, looking back at me. “Lena. Did Marcus ever mention a thumb drive to you?”
I swallowed hard, trying to recall the frantic nights before our final argument. “He... he kept a locked metal lockbox in the basement storage locker behind our old apartment building. He said it had his ‘retirement papers’ inside.”
Vincent nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact with Dmitri.
“Anthony,” Vincent said without looking back. “Take a team to the storage locker. Bring me the lockbox.”
“Right away, Boss,” Anthony replied, turning on his heel.
Vincent turned back to Dmitri, a cold, predatory smile forming on his lips.
“As for you, Dmitri,” Vincent said smoothly, stepping closer to the towering Russian. “You broke protocol. You crossed property lines. And worst of all, you frightened a guest in my home.”
Dmitri swallowed hard, his voice trembling. “Boss Moretti... wait—!”
Vincent didn't wait. With blinding, lightning-fast speed, Vincent’s right hand lashed out, gripping Dmitri by the throat and slamming him backward against the glass wall of the sunroom with a sickening crash that cracked the reinforced pane.
“Tell your boss in Brighton Beach that if I ever see his men within five miles of my estate again,” Vincent whispered, his voice shaking with suppressed fury, “I won't just take his money. I’ll take his head.”
He shoved Dmitri away with such force that the Russian stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own bodyguards, who were too terrified to lift a finger.
“Get out,” Vincent commanded.
Dmitri and his men scrambled out of the sunroom like whipped dogs, their footsteps echoing frantically down the marble hallway until the front doors slammed shut.
Silence returned to the glass sunroom.
Vincent exhaled slowly, adjusting his black cuffs. He turned around and walked over to my chair, his dark eyes searching my face with intense concern.
“Are you alright, Lena?” he asked, his voice returning to that gentle, steady baritone.
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“I... I am now,” I whispered, looking up at him with a heart beating wildly against my ribs. “Thank you, Vincent.”
Vincent offered a faint, reassuring smile, placing a warm hand gently on my uninjured shoulder. “You’re never going to have to look over your shoulder again, Lena. I swear it.”
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