Chapter 3 - The Midtown Hotel
The rain had turned into a downpour by the time the black armored SUV tore through the streets of Manhattan, cutting through red lights with siren strobes flashing behind the grille.
Edmund sat in the rear leather seat, checking the magazine of a matte-black SIG Sauer pistol. Beside him, Vivian had discarded her ruined wedding gown for a dark wool coat and boots Tommy had fetched from the bridal suite.
She didn't look terrified. She looked furious.
“You should have kept him in a safe house,” Vivian said, staring out at the blurred neon lights of Fifth Avenue.
“Your father refused,” Edmund replied without looking up from his weapon. “He insisted on staying at the Plaza. He said he had a meeting with his accountant.”
“He doesn't have an accountant,” Vivian sneered. “He has a bookie.”
“I know that now.” Edmund racked the slide of his pistol with a sharp, mechanical clack, setting the safety before holstering it. He looked at her. “You knew about the 1984 rider clause.”
“I drafted the update to that clause four years ago when I took over Hale Freight’s legal compliance,” Vivian said. “My father thought he was signing routine tax paperwork. I knew eventually his gambling would burn the company down, so I built a firewall.”
Edmund leaned back against the headrest, studying her face in the passing streetlights. “You let me marry you knowing that clause existed.”
“I let you marry me because you were holding eleven million dollars over my head,” Vivian countered smoothly. “Information is collateral, Edmund. In my family, it’s the only collateral that doesn't get spent in a poker game.”
“Smart girl.”
“I’m not a girl. I’m your wife. And if my father dies tonight, Victor Moretti takes those piers and burns Hale Freight to the ground.”
Tommy turned around from the front passenger seat. “We’re two minutes out. The hotel security cameras on the ninth floor went dark four minutes ago. Moretti’s men have the floor locked down.”
“How many?” Edmund asked.
“At least six,” Tommy said. “They brought a jamming rig. Local police haven't received a single 911 call.”
Edmund reached down, opened a compartment beneath his seat, and pulled out a second pistol—a compact Glock 19. He held it out to Vivian, butt first.
Vivian stared at the weapon.
“Do you know how to use it?” Edmund asked.
“My uncle was a range instructor in Jersey,” Vivian said. She took the gun, checked the weight, racked the slide to chamber a round, and dropped the safety with practiced, effortless familiarity. “Target practice on weekends.”
Tommy chuckled from the front. “I’m starting to like her, Boss.”
“Don't get attached,” Edmund said, though his eyes lingered on Vivian’s steady hands. “She still wants to know how much I’m worth dead.”
The SUV pulled into the side service alley behind the Plaza Hotel. Rain pounded against the asphalt. Two of Edmund’s tactical team met them at the service entrance, holding submachine guns wrapped in heavy black coats.
“Elevators are disabled,” the lead guard reported. “We have to take the service stairs to nine.”
“Move quietly,” Edmund instructed. “No survivors on the floor. Moretti needs to understand that touching my family carries a permanent penalty.”
They climbed the concrete stairwell in total darkness, guided only by small tactical flashlights attached to the guards' weapons. Vivian’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her footing was sure. Seven years of hauling cargo manifests across oil-slicked shipping docks had made her agile.
They reached the ninth floor door.
Tommy placed a fiber-optic scope under the doorframe. The small monitor on his wrist lit up with an infrared feed of the hallway.
“Two guys near room 912,” Tommy whispered. “Heavy body armor. Suppressed weapons. Two more inside the room with your father-in-law.”
Edmund nodded once to his lead guard. “Go.”
The guard pulled a breaching tool, slammed it into the door latch, and threw the door open in one fluid movement.
The suppressed gunfire sounded like heavy rain striking a canvas tent—sharp, rhythmic thwip-thwip-thwip noises that echoed down the carpeted corridor.
Edmund moved with terrifying speed. He stepped through the door, fired two shots into the chest of the nearest guard, pivoted, and took down the second gunman before the man could raise his weapon.
Vivian followed right behind him, her Glock raised, scanning the corners just as her uncle had taught her.
A third gunman stepped out of a recessed doorway, aiming directly at Edmund’s exposed flank.
Vivian didn't hesitate. She squeezed the trigger twice.
The heavy 9mm rounds struck the gunman in the neck and shoulder. He slammed against the wallpaper, leaving a smear of dark blood as he collapsed onto the carpet.
Edmund turned, his eyes locking onto Vivian for a second. There was no time for words. He kicked open the door to room 912.
Inside, Joseph Hale was tied to a chair in the center of the room, his face bruised, his expensive tuxedo torn. Standing over him was a tall, silver-haired man in an immaculate navy suit—Victor Moretti.
Moretti held a pen in one hand and a stack of legal documents in the other. A guard stood behind him, holding a pistol to Joseph’s head.
“Edmund,” Moretti said smoothly, not looking shocked in the least. “You’re late for your own party.”
“Drop the gun, Victor,” Edmund said, raising his SIG Sauer.
Moretti smiled, tapping the pen against the paper. “Your father-in-law just signed the pier transfer over to my holding company, Edmund. Witnessed, notarized by my associate, completely legal.”
“He signed under duress,” Vivian said, stepping into the room beside Edmund, her weapon pointed straight at Moretti’s heart.
Moretti looked at her, his eyes widening slightly when he recognized Joseph’s daughter holding a smoking gun. “Ah. The lovely bride. Joseph told me you were soft, my dear. He said you spent your days managing invoices.”
“I manage assets, Mr. Moretti,” Vivian said, her voice dropping into an icy register. “And right now, you’re an asset about to be liquidated.”
Joseph looked up from his chair, his lip bleeding, his voice weak. “Vivian... don't...”
“Shut up, Father,” Vivian snapped without breaking eye contact with Moretti.
Moretti laughed softly, though his eyes flicked nervously toward the hallway where four of his men lay dead. “You think you’ve won because you cleared the hallway? The moment I hit the floor, my men outside release the financial records proving your father laundered three million through Hale Freight last month. The feds will seize the piers anyway.”
Edmund took one step forward. “They won't seize anything, Victor. Because three minutes ago, Tommy transferred six million dollars into your primary offshore account from my personal holdings.”
Moretti paused, his smile faltering. “What?”
“A buy-out,” Edmund explained softly. “Fifty percent above market value for your share of the northern shipping contracts. The wire transfer is complete. You take the cash, you leave New York, and you never mention the Hale family again.”
Moretti stared at him, calculating the math in his head. Cash in hand versus a bloody turf war with Edmund Costa.
“And if I refuse?” Moretti asked quietly.
Edmund didn't answer. He simply looked down at the paper in Moretti’s hand, then up at his face.
The guard behind Joseph suddenly lowered his weapon, stepping away. He was one of Tommy’s deep-cover informants.
Moretti realized the trap was complete. He was surrounded, outmaneuvered, and offered a golden parachute to walk away.
Slowly, carefully, Moretti dropped the pen onto the desk. He took the legal documents and ripped them in half, tossing the pieces onto Joseph’s lap.
“You bought a very expensive wife, Costa,” Moretti said, fixing Edmund with a dark glare.
“Best money I ever spent,” Edmund replied.
Moretti adjusted his cuffs, walked past Vivian without looking at her, and disappeared down the hallway accompanied by Tommy.
The room fell silent except for the sound of Joseph sobbing quietly in his chair.
Vivian lowered her gun, engaged the safety, and handed it back to Edmund. Her hands were shaking slightly now, the adrenaline finally beginning to leave her system.
Edmund took the weapon, then looked at Joseph.
“Get him up,” Edmund told his guards. “Put him on a plane to Miami. He stays there until I say otherwise.”
“Vivian... please...” Joseph whimpered as the guards untied him.
Vivian turned her back on her father, walking toward the window that overlooked the rain-slicked city streets below. “Goodbye, Father. Try not to gamble away your hotel allowance.”
As the guards led Joseph out, Edmund walked up behind Vivian. He didn't touch her, but his presence was warm, solid, and absolute.
“You shot a man,” Edmund noted softly.
“I saved your life. Again,” Vivian said, turning around to face him. “That makes two times tonight.”
Edmund looked down at her, his gray eyes softer than she had ever seen them. “How much do I owe you for this one?”
Vivian met his gaze without flinching. “Fifty percent of the Brooklyn piers. Registered in my name tomorrow morning.”
May you like
Edmund stared at her for three seconds. Then, slowly, a true, brilliant smile spread across his face.
“Deal, Mrs. Costa,” he whispered.
