Chapter 6 - The Fall of the Architect
Moretti’s two bodyguards dropped their weapons instantly, raising their hands and kneeling on the wet asphalt as laser sights painted their chests in bright crimson dots.
Julian Moretti, however, went completely wild with desperation.
He pulled a small chrome derringer from his overcoat pocket with his free right hand, spinning toward me with murder in his eyes.
"You miserable little bitch!" he screamed, leveling the barrel at my forehead.
Before he could pull the trigger, Dominic lunged from the shadows with the speed of a striking viper, his heavy forearm slamming down across Moretti’s wrist with a sickening crack.
The small pistol skittered across the wet wood and tumbled into the black river below.
Dominic didn't let go; he drove Moretti backward against the hood of the Mercedes, his hand clamped around the older man's throat with enough force to turn his face purple.
"You should have stayed in the shadows, Julian," Dominic growled, his voice vibrating with absolute fury. "You tried to poison me in my own city. You ruined an honest family's name, and you dragged my brother's widow into treason."
Moretti clawed at Dominic’s fingers, gasping for air like a dying fish. "Rinaldi... wait... we can split the offshore accounts... fifty million... in Zurich..."
"I don't need your money, Julian," Dominic snarled, shoving him back down onto the metal hood. "I have enough wealth to buy every prison cell in this state. And you're going to spend the rest of your miserable life sitting inside one."
Federal marshals swarmed the vehicle, pinning Moretti down and using a heavy bolt-cutter to sever the steel chain connecting the titanium briefcase to his wrist.
Captain Reynolds of the NYPD Major Case Squad stepped forward, taking custody of the case and securing the suspect in double handcuffs.
"We have him, Mr. Rinaldi," the captain said, wiping rain from his brow. "The Department of Justice warrant out of the Southern District has been active for three years. He’s going away for life."
As they hoisted Moretti off the hood, the disgraced financier caught sight of me standing under the glare of the spotlights.
"Who are you?" he wheezed, blood trickling from his split lip. "Who the hell are you?"
I walked up until I was standing inches from his face, looking into the hollow, terrified eyes of the monster who had haunted my mother's nightmares for two years.
"My name is Mara Bennett," I said with clear, ringing pride. "David Bennett's daughter. And his audit is finally complete."
Moretti's jaw dropped in utter defeat as the marshals shoved him into the back of a tactical van, slamming the reinforced steel doors shut with a thunderous bang.
Dominic walked over to where I was standing, breathing heavily, his dark hair damp with river mist.
He looked down at me, and for the first time since that terrible dinner began, a genuine, warm smile broke across his rugged features.
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"Are you alright, Mara?" he asked softly, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder.
"I've never been better," I whispered, feeling the crushing weight of two years of grief and poverty lift from my chest into the cold night sky.
