Chapter 6 - A Reckoning in Red
The signing of the transfer deeds was supposed to conclude the nightmare, but in the treacherous underworld of New York shipping, power vacuums never remained empty for long.
Two days after the incident at the docks, the art world received a monumental shock. Salvatore Marcone, the aging patriarch of the rival syndicate backing Grant Keller, requested an emergency sit-down at the neutral banquet rooms of the Grand Central Oyster Bar. Marcone was furious that Keller’s valuable real estate assets had been signed over to the Russo family, claiming the Queens developments were collateral for unpaid debts owed to his own family.
Sadie sat at the breakfast island in the penthouse, sipping black coffee while reviewing the high-resolution infrared scans of Dominic’s remaining two Renaissance canvases. The tension in the apartment was palpable. Guards were stationed at every elevator bank, and the balcony shutters were reinforced with ballistic steel.
Dominic entered the dining room wearing a charcoal three-piece suit, adjusting his platinum cufflinks. He looked every bit the ruthless aristocrat ready for war.
“You shouldn't come to this meeting,” Sadie said, setting her mug down with a clink. The genuine concern in her voice surprised even herself. “Marcone is old, but his sons are notoriously reckless. Everyone in the art restoration community knows they operate like butcher dogs.”
Dominic walked over, resting his hands on the marble counter on either side of her, effectively trapping her in his space. His cologne enveloped her senses, intoxicating and grounding all at once. “Are you worrying about me, Miss Miller?”
“I’m worrying about the man who currently holds my grandmother’s hairpin and my cat hostage,” she deflected with a dry smirk, though her eyes betrayed her.
Dominic’s mouth curved into that rare, devastating smile that made her pulse stutter. “Salvatore Marcone is an old relic who still believes fear is bought with shouting. He wants compensation for Keller’s departure. I intend to offer him a reality check instead. But I need you to accompany me for the first twenty minutes.”
Sadie’s eyes widened. “Me? Why would you bring me into a mob summit?”
“Because Marcone’s chief financial advisor is bringing their own art consultant to dispute the legitimacy of the Renaissance oils I seized from Keller’s lockbox,” Dominic explained, his eyes turning serious. “They claim one of the authenticated works belongs to a historic Venetian estate under Marcone protection. If you prove on the record that the canvas is a modern forgery, their legal claim evaporates before the sit-down even begins. You strip them of their moral justification in front of the Commission.”
Sadie took a deep breath. She was an academic, a woman who spent her life in dusty archives and quiet restoration labs. But standing beside Dominic Russo, she felt an unfamiliar fire igniting in her veins. She wasn't a victim cowering behind locked doors anymore.
“Give me twenty minutes to put on a proper dress,” she said firmly. “And make sure your men don't touch my solvent kit.”
An hour later, the lower private vaults of the historic restaurant were sealed off from the public. Heavy oak tables were lined with crystal decanters, surrounded by stony-faced men in dark overcoats. Salvatore Marcone sat at the head of the table—a withered man with eyes like chipped flint, flanked by his two hot-headed sons, Lorenzo and Dante.
Dominic walked into the vaulted chamber with Sadie on his arm. The sheer presence of the pair commanded immediate, suffocating silence. Sadie wore a tailored emerald gown that accentuated her graceful posture, the faint scar on her collarbone left intentionally visible—a badge of honor rather than a mark of shame.
“Dominic,” Salvatore rasped, not bothering to rise. “You bring a civilian woman to a council of families? You disrespect us.”
“I bring the foremost authority on Renaissance pigments in North America,” Dominic replied smoothly, taking his seat at the opposite end of the table and pulling out the chair beside him for Sadie. “You claimed the Madonna of the Rosary was a family heirloom stolen by Keller. Miss Miller has completed the forensic analysis. Speak, Sadie.”
Sadie placed a slim black folder on the polished mahogany table and slid it directly toward Salvatore’s sneering sons.
“The canvas you provided is an elaborate fraud,” Sadie stated, her voice ringing clear and authoritative through the vaulted room. “The weave uses machine-spun Belgian flax that did not exist prior to 1840. Furthermore, the binding varnish contains titanium dioxide—a whitening agent patented in 1916. Your 'heirloom' was manufactured in an illicit workshop outside Bucharest less than four years ago. It has zero historical value, zero provenance, and zero legal standing.”
Lorenzo Marcone slammed his heavy palm onto the table, his face flushing crimson. “You insolent little bitch! You dare come in here and read fake reports to protect your lover?”
Before Lorenzo’s hand could lift from the mahogany, the sound of a gun cocking echoed through the room. Dominic had his semi-automatic leveled directly at Lorenzo’s forehead across the table, his eyes dead and unblinking.
The entire room went rigid. A dozen men reached for their holsters, but Dominic’s guards already had their barrels aimed at the Marcone brothers’ chests.
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“Use that word in reference to Miss Miller again, Lorenzo,” Dominic whispered, his tone so calm it was terrifying, “and you will not live long enough to hear the bullet clear the chamber.”
***
