Chapter 2: Liquidating a Life
The two women from Valentin's service left at 4 AM the next morning, paid exorbitantly and sworn to absolute secrecy. For Luca, the extended night had been a necessary, grueling workout for a atrophied part of his psyche. It had been about re-establishing absolute dominion, about using pleasure as a weapon against the trauma of his past. He had been a demanding, meticulous client, his focus unnerving. He'd sought not companionship, but submission and control, and he had achieved it. The ghosts had been quieted, for now.
By 5:30 AM, he was showered, shaved, and dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal grey Kiton suit. He stood in his kitchen, sipping a bitter espresso, his laptop open on the counter. The penthouse was silent, sterile, a beautiful cage. It represented a life of shadows and lies—the respectable financier masking the Corsican enforcer. He would liquidate it all.
His first calls were to his inner circle in the syndicate, a network of trusted—or, more accurately, profitably aligned—individuals across the globe. He used a secure satellite phone, its encryption a reassuring hum.
"Jean-Pierre," he said when his connection in Marseille answered. "It's Luca. I'm cashing out. Everything. The shipping containers in Rotterdam, the casino shares in Macau, the warehouse in Busan. All of it. I need it liquid, and I need it moved. Yesterday."
Jean-Pierre, a man whose voice sounded like it had been marinated in pastis and cigarette smoke, was shocked. "Mon ami, this is… sudden. The market is not ideal for—"
"I don't care about losing ten percent. I care about speed and silence," Luca cut him off, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Use the Bucharest route. The usual shells. Get it done."
He repeated the process with a nervous accountant in Zurich, a stoic arms dealer in Belgrade, and a ruthless real estate magnate in Seoul who laundered money for the Korean mob. His orders were the same: liquidate, consolidate, transfer. The sheer volume of assets he was moving—amounting to several hundred million euros—would cause ripples in the underworld, but his reputation for ruthless efficiency ensured compliance. Questions were not asked of Luca Moretti.
By mid-afternoon, the first waves of capital began to hit a complex web of offshore accounts he controlled from a laptop equipped with state-of-the-art encryption. He watched the numbers scroll, a cold satisfaction settling in his gut. This was the lifeblood of his future empire.
His "legitimate" life as a financial consultant was next. He logged into his work systems. He managed over a billion dollars in assets for wealthy international clients. It was the perfect cover, giving him access to the global financial bloodstream.
He began executing trades with a speed and certainty that would have seemed suicidal to anyone else. He shorted stocks of major airlines and cruise lines—companies that would be wiped out in the chaos. He invested absurd amounts in pharmaceutical companies that were, according to his memories, on the cusp of unrelated, explosive breakthroughs. He dumped all his personal holdings in tech firms reliant on stable global supply chains.
He then turned to cryptocurrency. Using a series of anonymous wallets, he began buying massive amounts of a half-dozen obscure altcoins. He knew which ones would inexplicably, and briefly, skyrocket in the months before the collapse due to panic-driven market manipulations. He would cash out at the very peak.
Each click of the mouse was a step towards invincibility. He wasn't guessing; he was transcribing history. The power was intoxicating.
A notification chimed. An email from his firm's managing partner, David Choi.
Luca, Noticed some… aggressive moves on your portfolios. Everything alright? The board is asking questions. Want to grab a drink and talk strategy?
Luca almost smiled. Strategy. They were worried about quarterly returns while he was preparing for the end of the world. He typed a quick, dismissive reply.
David, All under control. New algorithmic model. High confidence. Will explain during quarterlies. -L
He wasn't going to any quarterlies. He'd be long gone by then.
His personal assets were next. He called his real estate agent. "List the penthouse. Furnished. All offers considered. Close fast." He called a luxury car dealership. "Sell the Aston and the Porsche. Wire the funds to this account."
He was methodically severing ties to this world. He was a surgeon removing a cancerous limb—the limb was his old life, and the cancer was the apocalypse.
As evening fell, he allowed himself a moment to look out at the sparkling city. The lights of Gangnam shimmered, cars flowed like rivers of light, and the distant sound of a city alive with hope and ambition drifted up. A profound sense of isolation settled over him. He was alone in this knowledge, a god walking among insects soon to be crushed. There was no one he could warn. No one he could save. His purpose was singular.
His phone buzzed. It was Mi-ae from the previous night. He stared at the screen for a moment, then declined the call and blocked the number. Sentiment was a vulnerability. Attachment was a death sentence. He had learned that lesson in blood and fire.
He opened a new browser window. He wasn't done. The initial capital was flowing, but true power required more. It required leverage and fear. He accessed a part of the dark web known only to men like him. The interface was minimalist, a simple text-based portal. He typed a message to a user named Stoker, his primary arms connection.
Stoker. Moretti. Need to expand my shopping list. Preparing for a long, chaotic hunting season. Require: 200 AK-103s, 50 PKM machine guns, 20 Dragunovs. 5 million rounds, mixed calibers. RPG-7s, a dozen. Launchers and fifty rockets. C4, Semtex, detonators. Send updated inventory and pricing. Discretion and speed are premium.
He leaned back, waiting. The financial empire was the brain. The arsenal would be the fist. And he was just getting started. The ghost of tomorrow was already walking, and his shadow was falling over the unsuspecting city.