Chapter 11 - The Milan Directive
Z
By midnight, the quiet serenity of Lake Placid was replaced by the low, lethal hum of a fully mobilized war room.
Old men who had served Gabriel Moretti thirty years ago arrived at the estate in bulletproof sedans, carrying heavy duffel bags filled with automatic weapons, tactical radios, and satellite scramblers. These were not street-level thugs; they were former captains and syndicate strategists who had survived the bloody turf wars of the 1990s.
Gabriel Moretti sat at the head of the long oak dining table, dressed in a sharp black suit that hung loosely on his frail frame. The tubes were gone from his nose, replaced by an iron determination that seemed to defy his mortal age.
"Matteo Varghese," Gabriel spat, his raspy voice echoing through the room as he stared at a photograph displayed on my laptop screen. "I spared his father's life in Sicily in 1982. The Varghese family were always hyenas—waiting for lions to grow old before biting their heels."
Matteo Varghese was the current head of the Milan Syndicate—a ruthless forty-year-old billionaire who operated under the guise of an international shipping magnate. With Arthur Hale dead, Varghese aimed to absorb every smuggling route and financial clearinghouse on the East Coast.
"Varghese brought twelve tactical operatives with him," I said, pointing to the satellite tracking data mapped out by Marcus’s network. "They cleared customs using diplomatic passports issued through a West African consulate. They’ve already rented a private hangar at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey."
Maria leaned over the table, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. "They aren't going to attack us here at Lake Placid. Varghese is too smart for a rural ambush. He knows we have the high ground in these mountains."
"Then what's his move?" Teresa asked.
"He’s going to strike at the foundation," I said, the realization hitting me like cold water. "The Moretti Building in Lower Manhattan. That’s where the physical servers for the Zurich clearing accounts are housed in the subterranean vault."
"He wants the biometric data," Gabriel said softly, his thin hand gripping the edge of the table. "He knows Daniel is the only living person whose blood can unlock the global treasury. If he takes the servers, he can force Daniel to execute the transfer."
I picked up my tactical vest, pulling it over my head and tightening the side straps. "Then we don't wait for him to come to Manhattan. We hit his staging area at Teterboro before he can deploy."
"You're going to attack an airport hangar in broad daylight?" Maria asked, her eyebrow raised in disbelief.
"No," I replied, sliding a fresh magazine into my custom SIG Sauer P226. "We're going to blow the hangar off the map before his men even unload their weapons."
Gabriel looked up at me, a rare, terrifying smile creeping across his withered face. "Just like your grandfather, Daniel. Never let the enemy choose the battlefield."
Maria stepped up beside me as the old men began loading their weapons in the corridor. She reached out, placing a small gold signet ring into my palm. It bore the crest of the Moretti family—a raven clutching a silver dagger.
"Elias wore this," Maria whispered. "He wanted you to have it when the time came. Don't die out there, Daniel. I still owe you eighty million dollars."
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I looked at the ring, then at Maria, feeling an unspoken alliance forming between us. We were no longer bound by lies or artificial family bonds. We were partners in a war for survival.
"Keep Sofia and Gabriel safe," I said. "If I’m not back by sunrise, burn the servers."
