Chapter 7 - The Confrontation in the Fog
The cold wind whipped Elena’s hair across her face as she walked out from the shadows of the Mercedes, stepping resolutely toward the pool of light where Dante and Viktor stood.
All eyes turned instantly toward her, the dozen armed enforcers shifting nervously, their hands hovering near the weapons concealed beneath their coats.
Viktor Moretti smiled—a wide, predatory grin that revealed jagged, yellowed teeth.
He was a heavy-set man in his late fifties, his silver hair slicked back with pomade, wearing an expensive cashmere overcoat that looked entirely out of place in the gritty industrial harbor.
"Well, well, well," Viktor purred, his voice dripping with false warmth as he stepped closer to Elena.
"The little archivist who thought she could play with the big dogs. You have a lot of your father's courage, my dear. Too bad it’s going to get you killed."
Dante stepped laterally, placing himself squarely between Viktor and Elena, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
"Keep your distance, Viktor," Dante warned, his voice dropping an octave into a lethal register.
"You wanted the ledger. Here it is."
Dante reached into his coat, pulled out the black leather-bound decoy book, and tossed it across the wet concrete.
The ledger slid across the ground, coming to a halt right at Viktor’s polished shoes.
Viktor didn't bend down to pick it up immediately; instead, he nodded to one of his lieutenants, a scarred brute named Marco, who hurried forward and snatched the book off the ground.
Marco flipped open the cover, scanning the handwritten pages before looking up at Viktor and giving a sharp nod.
"It's Julian's hand, boss," Marco reported. "The numbers match the offshore accounts."
Viktor’s smile widened into a triumphant, manic grin.
"Magnificent," Viktor breathed, looking back up at Dante with a look of supreme victory.
"After all these years, the entire syndicate is finally mine."
"You forgot one detail, Uncle," Dante replied calmly, a dark, unsettling smile touching the corners of his lips.
Viktor’s smile faltered slightly. "What's that?"
"Julian Vance was an archivist," Dante said, his voice echoing cleanly across the pier.
"Which means he never wrote down the real numbers in a book anyone else could read."
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Before Viktor could process the warning, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the shadows behind the parked trucks.
Dozens of laser sights suddenly blinked to life, painting Viktor and his men in a blinding web of crimson dots.
