Chapter 6 - The Fall of Apex
The fall of Apex Holdings was swift, merciless, and absolute.
Within two hours of the federal raid on Pier 42, the Department of Justice issued emergency arrest warrants for Julian Vance, Marcus Sterling, and twelve senior executives across three subsidiary companies. The charges were staggering: corporate manslaughter, federal extortion, illegal weapons trafficking through deep-water ports, and the premeditated murder of four individuals—including Thomas Carter, Isabella Moretti, and seven-year-old Arya Moretti.
In Vance’s office, as federal marshals stepped through the broken doorway to place steel handcuffs on his wrists, the arrogant billionaire turned his head toward me, his face twisted in a pathetic plea.
"Dominic... wait!" Vance shouted, his voice cracking as he was pulled toward the door. "We can make a deal! I have three hundred million dollars in Swiss accounts! I can transfer control of the shipping licenses back to you tonight! Just tell the prosecutors it was all Sterling!"
I didn't answer him. I didn't even look at his face.
I reached out, picked up Thomas Carter’s photograph from the desk, slid it carefully back into my pocket, and turned my back on him forever.
As Vance and Sterling were dragged down the glass hallway in chains, surrounded by bank after bank of flashing news cameras, Mateo walked up beside me.
"The federal prosecutors have cleared the estate, boss," Mateo reported softly. "All freeze orders on Moretti Logistics assets have been lifted. By market open tomorrow, your company controls ninety percent of the North Atlantic shipping corridors."
I looked out the high glass window at the dark rain falling over Lower Manhattan.
"Re-open the primary shipping terminals, Mateo," I instructed quietly. "Establish a ten-million-dollar perpetual trust fund in Thomas Carter’s name for the families of fallen dockworkers. And make sure Sophia Carter is named the sole executor of the estate."
"Consider it done, Mr. Moretti," Mateo replied with a respectful nod.
I walked out of the glass tower into the cool, night air of Wall Street.
The rain had stopped.
The heavy clouds were breaking apart over the harbor, revealing a clear sky filled with cold, distant stars.
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I got into the back seat of my vehicle, pulling out my pocketbook, looking down at the small palm print Emma had left in my memory.
"Take me home," I told the driver. "Take me back to the garden."
