Chapter 8 - The Intercepted Convoy
Bellini reached beneath his jacket for a concealed weapon, but Leo Rossi moved with blinding speed, driving the butt of a combat shotgun into Bellini’s ribs.
Bellini collapsed onto the floor with a painful gasp, his sidearm clattering across the polished wood toward my boots.
I kicked the weapon under the table, looking down at the disgraced consigliere with cold, unyielding pity.
“Did you really think I wouldn't check your offshore accounts in Nassau, Dominic?” I asked softly.
I tapped a button on the conference room’s multimedia terminal, activating the gigantic 8K projection screens on the eastern wall.
The screens illuminated with the unredacted digital ledgers recovered from Viktor Cruz’s decrypted database.
The charts clearly displayed thirty million dollars in wire transfers flowing from Bellini’s dummy corporations to the Russian cyber-syndicate that hacked Julian’s car.
Beneath the financial records was the authenticated audio recording of Bellini speaking to the cartel hitmen four years ago.
Bellini’s recorded voice boomed through the ballroom’s sound system with horrifying, undeniable clarity:
”Make sure Julian burns inside the warehouse; we cannot afford a single survivor who knows about the offshore shipping routes.”
The entire room erupted into an uproar of furious shouting, the syndicate elders spitting on the floor near Bellini’s knees in pure disgust.
Don Antonio Lucchese pulled his silver-headed cane back, striking Bellini across his shoulders with crushing force.
“You murdered your own blood brother for paper money, you traitorous dog!” Don Antonio roared.
Judge Harold Finch scrambled out of his chair, attempting to slip through the side emergency exit, but two of my tactical operators blocked his path.
“Judge Finch,” I said, turning my gaze toward the trembling magistrate.
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation just unsealed an eighteen-count bribery indictment bearing your name twenty minutes ago.”
The heavy double doors of the ballroom were pushed open once more, and Special Agent Marcus Reed of the FBI stepped into the room with twelve armed federal marshals.
Agent Reed held a stack of red-sealed federal arrest warrants, his gold badge gleaming under the crystal chandeliers.
“Dominic Bellini and Harold Finch, by order of the United States District Court, you are under arrest for capital murder, interstate racketeering, and corporate fraud.”
As the federal marshals dragged Bellini and Finch toward the exits in heavy steel chains, Bellini looked back at me with blood-filled, weeping eyes.
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“Vincent! Please! We were friends for twelve years!” Bellini begged pathetically.
I did not answer him; I reached down, gently lifted Chloe into my arms, and turned my back on the past forever.
