Chapter 7 - The Cornered Rat
Defeat did not make Derek surrender; it made him insane.
Stripped of his wealth, his reputation, and his freedom, Derek faced twenty years in federal prison for fraud and embezzlement. Out on a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bond posted by his disgraced father, Derek made a fatal gamble.
He contacted a crew of corrupt ex-mercenaries who owed him favors from his offshore dealings. He was convinced that if he could kidnap Emily, he could force Alexander to return the seized offshore funds and smuggle him across the border to South America.
The opportunity came three nights later.
Emily had insisted on visiting her late grandfather’s old studio on the South Side to retrieve her mother’s antique sketchbooks before the property was auctioned. Alexander had sent four armed guards with her, while he finalized the closure of Carter Capital downtown.
As Emily’s SUV pulled out of the studio’s alley, a black delivery truck slammed directly into the driver’s side.
*CRASH!*
Glass shattered. Airbags deployed with an explosive pop. Emily was thrown against the door, her vision blurring as smoke filled the cabin.
Through the broken window, she saw men in tactical gear opening fire on her security detail. Gunshots cracked through the damp night air.
The rear door was ripped open. A hand grabbed Emily by her hair, dragging her violently out into the cold pavement.
“Got you!” a voice rasped.
It was Derek. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes filthy, smelling of alcohol and adrenaline. He held a revolver in his right hand.
“Get in the van!” Derek screamed, dragging her across the asphalt. “Get in the van or I swear to God I’ll blow your head off right here!”
Emily’s knee scraped against the concrete, the pain searing hot. For a split second, the old terror paralyzed her—the instinct to apologize, to obey, to survive.
Then, she remembered Alexander’s words: *She decides.*
She was no longer the broken girl beneath the desk.
With all the strength in her body, Emily whipped her elbow backward, catching Derek square in the bridge of his nose.
Derek howled, stumbling back, blood spurting from his nostrils. “You crazy bitch!”
Before he could raise the revolver, the deafening roar of a modified V8 engine tore through the alley.
A matte-black heavy SUV smashed through the barricade of mercenaries’ vehicles, sending metal flying like shrapnel. The vehicle didn't even brake—it slammed straight into Derek’s getaway van, crushing it like an aluminum can.
The driver’s door kicked open.
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Alexander Moretti stepped out into the smoke.
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