Chapter 5 - The War for the TerminalsBy 10:00 AM the following morning, the news that Julian Vescari’s Fifth Avenue penthouse had been attacked by Marcus Moretti’s syndicate detonated across New York's corporate and underground sectors.
Moretti believed Julian was dead or hiding in fear.
At 2:00 PM, a formal summons arrived at the Vescari Estate on gold-embossed cardstock:
THE NEW YORK MARITIME BOARD COUNCIL
THE PLAZA HOTEL — MANHATTAN
EMERGENCY SESSION CALLED BY DON MARCUS MORETTI
Inside the master dressing suite of the Long Island estate, Emma stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror wearing an exquisite, custom midnight-blue silk dress provided by Julian's private tailor. The dress draped gracefully over her figure, highlighting every curve, while a delicate platinum necklace holding a seven-carat flawless sapphire rested against her collarbone.
Her dark hair was styled in glossy waves, her hazel eyes shining with quiet, unshakeable confidence.
Julian stepped up behind her, wearing an immaculate black tuxedo. He wrapped his broad, warm arms around her waist, pulling her back flush against his broad chest, resting his chin against her temple.
"You look breathtaking, Emma," Julian whispered into the mirror, his gray eyes burning with an absolute, unshakeable pride.
"Julian," Emma turned in his arms, resting her hands against his broad lapels. "Moretti thinks I'm your weakness. He thinks bringing me to the Plaza will make you surrender your shipping leases."
Julian offered a rare, breathtaking smile—a look of pure, sovereign confidence that lit up his handsome, severe face.
"Marcus Moretti is a fool, Emma," Julian promised softly, leaning down to press a sweet, lingering kiss against her lips. "He thinks you are my weakness. He doesn't realize you are my armor."
Twenty minutes later, a fleet of six black armored Maybachs pulled up to the red carpet outside the Plaza Hotel.
When Julian walked through the mahogany double doors of the grand ballroom, holding Emma’s hand securely in his broad palm, flanked by thirty armed operators, the two hundred elite guests went dead, breathlessly silent.
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Marcus Moretti stood near the head table, wearing a dark suit, holding a crystal glass of scotch.
When Moretti saw Julian walking toward him completely unharmed, holding the hand of the seamstress who had survived the forty-seventh floor, his jaw sagged open in total, horror-stricken shock.
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