Chapter 36 - The Midnight Exchange
The snow had turned into a slashing sleet by the time our two black SUVs cut through the perimeter gates of Midway Airport’s private terminal.
The storm had grounded commercial flights, but money and forged clearance papers could still buy runway asphalt. In the distance, through the blinding sheets of grey sleet, the sleek white silhouette of a Gulfstream G650 sat idling on the tarmac, its twin jet engines emitting a low, high-pitched whine that vibrated through the frozen ground.
"Two guards at the boarding stairs," Lorenzo observed from the front passenger seat, lowering his thermal binoculars. "Three inside the hangar bay. They don't look like syndicate muscle. Too rigid. Ex-military."
"The Architect’s private contractors," Luca murmured, checking the slide on his weapon. "They aren't just taking the ledger, Clara. They're preparing to scrub the evidence."
"We move quietly," I said, my pulse steadying into a calm, ice-cold focus. "If they realize we're here, they'll burn the servers on board and take off into the storm."
Luca looked at me, a dangerous, thrilling grin curling his lips. "Listen to her. She’s already running the family."
"Don't flatter me, Moretti," I retorted, racking the bolt of my own compact firearm. "Just cover my flank."
We moved in three teams. Lorenzo and his Carbone operators flanked the rear of the hangar to cut off the fuel supply, while Luca, Mrs. Moretti, and I crept along the maintenance corridor beneath the tarmac lights.
The cold was biting, cutting through my wool coat, but my blood was pure fire. For ten years, I had taken orders. I had scrubbed dishes until my knuckles bled, bowing my head to arrogant bullies who thought their family names made them gods. Tonight, the debts were coming due.
A shadow broke from the edge of the hangar—a private contractor in black fatigues carrying an aluminum flight case.
"Hold," Luca whispered in my ear, his hand firm on my shoulder.
The contractor reached the base of the plane's boarding stairs. A second man emerged from the jet's cabin—tall, wearing a pristine camel-hair cashmere coat that billowed in the winter gale. Even from fifty yards away, through the driving sleet, his posture screamed generational wealth and absolute detachment.
"Is the data locked?" the man in the camel coat called out over the engine noise.
"Fully compiled, sir," the courier replied. "Every offshore account belonging to the Moretti, Carbone, and Bellini houses has been routed to the Zurich trust. The Five Families are officially bankrupt. When the sun comes up, the city council will announce the receivership of the port authority."
"Excellent," the man in the camel coat said, checking a gold timepiece on his wrist. "And what of Don Corrado?"
"Dead or captured, sir. It doesn't matter. He was merely the wedge."
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"A pity," the man sighed, entirely devoid of pity. "Old men make such tedious martyrs. Burn the manifests and board. We leave now."
"I'm afraid your flight's been canceled due to bad weather," Luca’s voice rang out, clear and cutting across the tarmac.
