Chapter 2 - THE ROT WITHIN
Two hours later, the private VIP suite on the top floor of Lenox Hill had been transformed into an impromptu war room.
Daniel had been stabilized by a team of independent cardiologists flown in by private jet under Vincent’s direct supervision. His heart rate had slowed to a steady, manageable rhythm, though he remained fast asleep, exhausted by the trauma.
Gabriel sat in a leather armchair beside the bed, his fingers steepened beneath his chin, staring into the middle distance.
The door opened quietly, and Vincent stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. He looked grim. He carried a heavy manila folder and a bloodstained maintenance cap.
“We didn't catch them at the loading dock,” Vincent reported, his voice low. “The service cameras were looped on a thirty-minute delay. By the time our perimeter teams locked down the block, the vehicle—a stolen Ford transit van—was found abandoned three blocks away, burning in an alley.”
“And the men?” Gabriel asked, his eyes not moving from the window.
“Professional clean-up crew, Boss. Not street thugs. They knew how to bypass the internal protocols. Which brings us to the access logs.” Vincent placed the manila folder on the side table. “The override code used to unlock the fourth-floor security bulkhead at 8:14 PM wasn't hacked from the outside. It was entered using an administrative terminal.”
Gabriel finally turned his head. “Whose terminal?”
“Dr. Marcus Vance. Head of Pediatric Cardiology.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. Marcus Vance had been Daniel’s primary physician for four years. A man Gabriel had paid handsomely, trusted implicitly, and recommended to every high-society family in Manhattan.
“Where is Vance?” Gabriel asked, his voice chillingly soft.
“Nowhere, Boss. His apartment on Park Avenue is empty. His passports, offshore accounts, and encrypted comms were cleared out three hours before the attempt on Daniel’s life.” Vincent paused, hesitating for a fraction of a second—a rare sign of hesitation from a man who had seen it all. “There’s more.”
“Talk.”
Vincent opened the folder and slid a single sheet of paper across the table. It was a digital wire transfer confirmation slip, routed through a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands.
“Three days ago,” Vincent said quietly, “five million dollars was deposited into Marcus Vance’s offshore account. The origin of the wire isn't a rival syndicate in Brooklyn. It’s not the Russians. It’s an internal family account.”
Gabriel looked down at the paper.
The name on the originating corporate account was Vanguard Holdings—a holding company that Gabriel himself had approved two weeks ago during a routine portfolio restructuring.
An account managed exclusively by his younger brother, Julian Moretti.
The room seemed to shrink. All the air vanished, leaving behind the suffocating weight of betrayal.
For ten years, since the death of their father, Gabriel had shielded Julian from the brutal realities of the syndicate, keeping him out of the gutters, setting him up with legitimate commercial real estate portfolios, treating him not just as a brother, but as his designated heir to the Moretti legacy.
And Julian had just tried to murder six-year-old Daniel.
Why? Because with Daniel out of the picture, Julian would become the sole blood heir to the entire Moretti empire, positioning him to consolidate power and sell off the syndicate’s logistics network to the very Brooklyn crews Gabriel was currently at war with.
Gabriel stood up slowly. The chair scraped softly against the floor.
He didn't yell. He didn't smash anything. He simply buttoned his suit jacket, his face settling into a mask of terrifying, frozen calm.
“Where is Julian?” Gabriel asked.
“He’s currently hosting a charity gala at the Plaza Hotel,” Vincent said carefully. “Celebrating the annual Moretti Foundation endowment.”
Gabriel walked toward the door. As he reached the threshold, he stopped and looked back toward the bed where Daniel was sleeping peacefully, watched over by Elena Harper, who sat quietly in the corner chair, keeping a vigilant vigil over the boy.
Gabriel looked at Elena. “Lock the door, Mrs. Harper. Nobody enters this room unless it’s me or Vincent.”
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“Where are you going, Mr. Moretti?” Elena asked, her eyes searching his face.
“To family dinner,” Gabriel said.
