Chapter 6 - The Feast Of Traitors
At precisely eight-fifty-five, the heavy grandfather clock in the foyer struck nine.
Vivien excused herself from a conversation with the Cook County State’s Attorney, whispering that she needed to powder her nose. I watched her glide across the marble floor, slipping through the side archway toward the security control hub.
I gave Rocco a subtle nod from across the ballroom.
Within ninety seconds, the mansion’s secondary staff discreetly guided the thirty high-profile guests into the soundproof private gallery under the guise of an exclusive private art exhibition. The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind them, sealing them away in safety.
The grand dining hall went dead silent.
I walked into the center of the room and sat at the head of the seventy-foot mahogany table. A single crystal glass of aged bourbon sat before me.
The terrace doors swung open with a violent gust of freezing night air.
Julian Vance stepped into the hall, clad in a black tactical jacket, a suppressed automatic submachine gun held across his chest. Behind him poured ten armed mercenaries, their boots squeaking against the polished parquet floor.
Behind Julian walked Vivien. She had discarded her silk shawl, her face cold, arrogant, and entirely devoid of love.
“It’s over, Lorenzo,” Vivien said, stepping up beside her brother. “Don’t bother reaching for your gun. My brother’s men have swept the perimeter. Your guards are all disarmed.”
I took a slow sip of bourbon, not even bothering to look up from the amber liquid. “Is that what you think, Vivien?”
Julian laughed, a harsh, nervous bark that revealed how frayed his nerves truly were. “Cut the tough guy act, Duca! You’re finished! Sign over the power of attorney for the offshore accounts right now, or we paint this dining room with your brains and dump your body in Lake Michigan with your father!”
“Ah, yes. My father,” I said quietly, setting the glass down with a soft click. “The man you slaughtered six years ago on Interstate 90. The man whose blood paid for your sister’s emeralds.”
Vivien flinched slightly, her eyes widening. “You... you know?”
“I know everything,” I said, resting my elbows on the table and looking directly into her eyes. “I know about the twelve million dollars you owe the Moretti syndicate. I know you poisoned Marco’s brakes when he discovered your father’s conspiracy. And I know you threatened a three-year-old child inside my own house.”
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Julian raised his weapon, leveling the barrel straight at my forehead. “Knowing the truth won't save you, Lorenzo! Sign the papers!”
“Julian,” I said, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling like rolling thunder. “Look at your men.”
