Chapter 12 - The Boardroom Coup of Victoria Moretti
At 1:30 PM that afternoon, inside the grand 60th-floor boardroom of the Moretti Tower in downtown Chicago, an extraordinary executive assembly had been convened.
Sitting at the head of the sixty-foot polished mahogany conference table was Victoria Moretti.
At sixty-four, Victoria was an imposing, aristocratic matriarch. She wore an immaculate ivory Valentino skirt suit, three strands of cultured South Sea pearls at her throat, her silver hair styled in a severe, flawless chignon. She was sipping Earl Grey tea from an antique porcelain cup, reviewing the quarterly financial statements with four senior syndicate lieutenants and two corporate attorneys.
“Has Julian confirmed the completion of the Boston assignment?” Victoria asked smoothly, not looking up from her papers.
Arthur Castiglione, the sixty-year-old underboss of the New York syndicate, leaned back in his leather chair, a smug grin playing across his lips.
“Julian’s team breached the residential perimeter three hours ago, Victoria,” Castiglione replied, swirling a glass of scotch. “By tonight, the obstacle will be permanently cleared, and our families can finalize the merger of the Great Lakes shipping corridors.”
Victoria offered a thin, satisfied smile, setting her teacup down with a delicate clatter.
“A necessary unpleasantness,” Victoria murmured with cold detachment. “Adrian has always suffered from an unforgivable romantic sentimentality. He lacks the stomach for absolute power. Once the children are removed from the equation, he will have no choice but to marry your daughter and solidify our control.”
The senior corporate litigator, David Vance, slid a thick leather portfolio across the mahogany table.
“The emergency proxy papers are ready for your signature, Mrs. Moretti,” David Vance announced. “Under Section 14 of the Moretti Charter, if the Chairman remains absent from jurisdiction during a declared security crisis for more than twenty-four hours, executive authority reverts automatically to the Matriarchal Council.”
Victoria picked up her gold Montblanc fountain pen, unscrewing the cap with deliberate, predatory grace.
“Let us conclude this,” Victoria smiled, placing the gold nib against the signature line.
BOOM!
The heavy double carved-bronze doors of the grand boardroom were blown inward off their heavy hinges by a concussive hydraulic breaching charge.
The explosion shook the sixty-foot mahogany table. Crystal water carafes shattered, sending water cascading across the quarterly balance sheets.
The four syndicate lieutenants leaped to their feet in utter shock, reaching for their holsters.
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“WEAPONS DOWN!” Marcus Reed’s voice roared through the smoke like a crack of thunder.
Twelve heavily armed Black Watch operators in full tactical gear flooded the room, their assault carbines trained with lethal precision on every director at the table.
