Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Moretti
Three months passed, and the 37th floor of Bellandi Tower was completely transformed.
Grace was no longer the clumsy, terrified girl in the oversized clearance-rack blazer. Under Luca’s quiet guidance, she had stepped into her role as his chief administrative coordinator. She wore sharp, tailored emerald and navy suits, her auburn curls pinned up in a chic, elegant twist. Her desk was immaculate, and the other secretaries who had once snickered behind her back now spoke to her with a quiet, deferential respect.
But the peace was a fragile illusion.
The fall of Paul DeVries had sent shockwaves through the Boston underworld. The Moretti crime syndicate, furious over the loss of their inside man and the exposure of their financial skimming, had been quiet—too quiet.
It was a chilly November evening. Grace was finalizing the month-end compliance reports in her office. Luca had gone downstairs to the secure garage to meet with his security chief, Matteo, leaving her alone on the executive floor.
The elevator chimed.
Grace didn't look up, assuming it was the night cleaning crew. "Just leave the trash bins, please, I’ll be out in ten minutes."
"I'm afraid we aren't here to clean, Miss Whitaker."
The voice was cold, raspy, and carried a thick, menacing Brooklyn accent.
Grace snapped her head up. Standing in front of her desk were three men. They weren't wearing the polished charcoal suits of Bellandi employees. They wore heavy leather jackets, and the leader—a tall, scarred man with yellowed teeth—was holding a silenced silver pistol.
"Who are you?" Grace asked, her hand slowly creeping toward the panic button beneath her desk.
"Don't even think about it," the leader warned, raising the gun slightly, aiming it directly at her forehead. "The silent alarm has already been looped. Your boyfriend downstairs is currently locked in his private garage with a dozen of our guys. You’re coming with us."
"Luca..." Grace’s heart hammered in her throat. "What do you want with him?"
"We want our thirty million back," the scarred man sneered, stepping around the desk and grabbing her arm with a crushing, bruising force. "And since Luca is so fond of his new detail-oriented secretary, we figure you’re the perfect leverage to make him sign the transfer codes. Now move."
Grace was dragged toward the private freight elevators, her mind racing. She had spent five years caring for a man whose mind was a shattered maze, learning how to stay calm in the middle of a crisis. She knew that panic would get her killed.
As they entered the service elevator, she noticed the reflection in the metal walls. The scarred man was holding her, but the other two were looking at the floor indicators, nervous. They were deep in Bellandi territory, and they knew it.
"You won't get out of the building," Grace said, forcing her voice to remain steady, almost bored. "The security protocols lock down the elevator shafts if the weight limit doesn't match the scheduled shift logs. My desk monitor tracks every floor. If you don't input the bypass code, the elevator will stop between thirty and twenty-nine, and the air vents will shut."
The scarred man blinked, looking at his partners. "Is she lying?"
"I don't know, boss," one of them stammered. "DeVries said the tech in this building is military-grade."
"What’s the code, girl?" the leader hissed, pressing the cold barrel of the gun against her temple.
"It's 4-9-2-7," Grace lied, her voice completely smooth.
The man reached out, punching the numbers into the freight panel.
Instantly, a bright red warning light began to flash, and a loud, blaring klaxon echoed through the shaft. The elevator came to a grinding, violent halt.
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"You bitch!" the leader roared, raising his hand to strike her.
But before his fist could connect, the emergency roof hatch of the elevator exploded inward.
