Chapter 9 - The Fall of Don Moretti
By dawn, the penthouse was completely clean.
A specialized crew had arrived at three in the morning. By six, the dead were gone, the travertine was scrubbed with industrial solvents, and new floor-to-ceiling hurricane glass had been installed on the terrace. The air was cleared with ozone machines, smelling once again of crisp winter air and rich coffee.
Ethan did not stay to rest.
Dressed in a fresh charcoal suit and a long cashmere overcoat, he gathered forty heavily armed men in the underground garage of the St. Regis.
""Norah,"" he said before stepping into his armored SUV. He handed me a black leather folder. ""If I am not back by noon, open this. Inside are passports for you and Sam, deeds to a villa in Lake Como, and bearer bonds worth fifty million dollars. Dante has orders to put you on a private jet out of O'Hare the second the clock strikes twelve.""
I looked at the folder, then threw it onto the passenger seat of his car.
""I won't need it,"" I said, stepping up to him and adjusting his silk tie just as he had done to Gregory weeks ago. ""You told me you don't abandon what you claim. Don't make me a liar.""
A rare, devastating smile curved Ethan’s lips. He leaned down, pressing a hard kiss to my mouth in front of forty hardened soldiers who immediately turned their heads in respect.
""Wait for me,"" he murmured against my lips.
The battle for Chicago's underworld didn't happen in the dark alleys. It happened in broad daylight, with the brutal efficiency only Ethan Hayes could orchestrate.
At eight in the morning, Ethan’s men seized Moretti’s private docks along Lake Michigan, cutting off eighty percent of the rival family's revenue stream in twenty minutes.
At nine-thirty, the federal authorities—armed with a massive dossier of bank records and smuggling manifests anonymously delivered to the U.S. Attorney’s desk—raided Don Moretti’s legal businesses, freezing every account associated with his name.
And at eleven o'clock, Ethan Hayes walked through the front doors of the Italian-American Heritage Club on Grand Avenue—alone.
Don Moretti sat at the head of a private dining room, surrounded by his last six surviving lieutenants, his face pale, his hands shaking as he sipped his espresso.
""Ethan,"" the old mobster croaked, reaching toward the snub-nosed revolver on the tablecloth. ""You think you can take everything I built in forty years?""
Ethan didn't draw a weapon. He pulled out a leather chair, sat down, and folded his hands over his knee.
""You broke the rules, Alberto,"" Ethan said, his voice echoing in the dead silence of the club. ""You sent hitmen into a private home where an infant was sleeping. Even our ancestors in Sicily would have put a bullet in your head for that.""
""It was business!"" Moretti spat.
""No,"" Ethan replied, cold as a tombstone. ""It was sloppy. And it threatened my family.""
Ethan stood up and tossed a single photograph onto the table. It was an image of Moretti’s three sons, currently handcuffed in an FBI holding facility in downtown Chicago.
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""Sign the transfer deeds for the trucking lines, Alberto. Take your private savings and get on a flight to Palermo before sunset. If your feet touch American soil after six tonight, I won't send Dante. I will come myself.""
Ten minutes later, Ethan walked out into the cold Chicago sunshine. The Moretti empire was no more. The city belonged to Hayes.
