Chapter 12 - The Federal Mandate
The secure briefing room on the ground floor of the Moretti estate looked less like a corporate office and more like a tactical war room. Digital screens mounted along the stone walls displayed live satellite feeds of the estate’s exterior gates, where a sleek black government sedan sat idling on the gravel driveway. Two men in charcoal federal suits stood outside the vehicle, their hands resting deliberately near their hips.
“They’re moving faster than expected,” Dante said, his jaw tight as he stared at the monitors. He tossed a secure tablet onto the stainless-steel conference table. “The moment the ledger was decrypted and uploaded to the federal database, every corrupt bureaucrat tied to Bellucci’s payroll in Washington panicked. They want that data seized, buried, and classified under national security before public subpoenas can be issued.”
I stood beside him, watching the feed closely. “If they get their hands on the original micro-SD card, what happens to the investigation?”
“It disappears,” Dante answered without hesitation. “Buried in a classified archive where no judge will ever see it. The corrupt officials walk free, and the syndicate simply reforms under a new name.”
The heavy steel door of the briefing room slid open with a pneumatic hiss. The estate’s security chief stepped inside, escorting a tall, silver-haired man wearing an expensive tailored overcoat and an expression of bureaucratic authority. A gold lapel pin shaped like the Department of Justice seal gleamed against his collar.
“Mr. Moretti,” the man said smoothly, stepping into the room with an air of absolute entitlement. “I am Special Agent Richard Vance—no relation to your guest, I assure you—representing the federal oversight and asset forfeiture division.”
My blood ran cold. The name echoed in my ears like a physical blow.
Dante didn't blink. He slowly turned away from the monitors, his massive frame radiating an aura of suppressed violence. He didn't offer his hand, nor did he invite the man to sit.
“Agent Vance,” Dante said, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register that always preceded a storm. “You’re trespassing on private property without a valid judicial warrant signed by a federal judge.”
The agent offered a cold, professional smile, pulling a folded document from his leather portfolio and tossing it onto the table. “A national security directive signed by the Deputy Attorney General overrides local warrants, Mr. Moretti. Furthermore, we have credible intelligence that unauthorized civilians—specifically Miss Sophie Vance—are currently in possession of classified evidence stolen from a federal investigation.”
I stepped forward from the shadows of the room, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “Stolen? That data belonged to my father. He gave his life to expose the men you’re currently protecting.”
Agent Vance turned his sharp, calculating gaze toward me. A flicker of recognition crossed his eyes before he masked it behind a mask of official indifference. “Your father was a criminal associate of Victor Bellucci, Miss Vance. Anything he compiled is property of the federal government. Hand over the locket and the storage drive immediately, or face immediate arrest for obstruction of justice and harboring syndicate assets.”
The silence in the room became absolute. On the wall monitors, the second federal agent outside stepped closer to the intercom box, placing a hand on the handle of a suppressed tactical carbine.
Dante slowly shifted his weight, his hand sliding casually toward the concealed holster beneath his left arm.
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“You have five seconds to walk back out those gates, Agent Vance,” Dante said, his voice as cold as frozen steel. “And if you touch so much as a hair on Miss Vance’s head... you won't make it to the end of the driveway.”
***
