Chapter 7 - A Gathering of Wolves
While Dr. Evans and two trusted underground surgical nurses worked frantically in the shadows to transport my comatose body to a covert medical facility in the Warwick hills, Declan walked straight into the lion's den.
The Harrow family estate in Newport was a monument to stolen wealth—a sprawling Gilded Age mansion perched on the cliffs overlooking the black Atlantic. Tonight, the ballroom was lit with crystal chandeliers, hosting an emergency closed-door summit of the family syndicate and the Genovese leadership.
Margot Harrow stood near the marble fireplace, holding a glass of vintage champagne, smiling gracefully at Thomas Harrow and Don Salvatore Genovese.
""Declan’s mental breakdown is being handled,"" Margot told the Don, her voice smooth as silk. ""The papers will report that his trauma from the abduction has rendered him permanently unfit to serve as CEO. Thomas will sign the shipping contracts tomorrow morning.""
""And the girl?"" Salvatore asked, his gravelly voice thick with smoke. ""Laurel Ames? She knows too much about the supply lines.""
""Julian’s men have orders to terminate her on sight,"" Thomas sneered, swirling his bourbon. ""She’s probably hiding in some filthy motel in New Jersey. She won't survive the week.""
The heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open with a concussive bang that silenced the room.
Declan stood in the archway.
He was dressed in a pristine charcoal bespoke suit, his hair slicked back, his dark eyes burning with an aura so menacing that the two armed guards at the entrance took an involuntary step backward. He looked every inch the undisputed Don of the Harrow family, an apex predator returned from the grave.
""You're having a party,"" Declan said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room. ""And you didn't wait for the host.""
Margot’s glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the marble hearth. ""Declan... darling, what are you doing here? You should be in bed—""
""I was in bed, Mother,"" Declan said, walking slowly toward the fireplace. ""For twenty-seven days, I sat in a locked room while you and Thomas pumped acoustic frequencies into my brain to drive me insane.""
Thomas’s face drained of color. ""Declan, you're delusional! The trauma has ruined your mind—""
Declan didn't raise his voice. He simply tapped a button on his smartphone.
Instantly, the four massive projection screens mounted on the ballroom walls—usually reserved for displaying quarterly stock returns—flickered to life. Audio recordings began playing through the surround-sound system: Thomas negotiating the purchase of neuro-toxins; Margot laughing as she discussed placing Declan in a permanent psychiatric ward; Julian confirming the hit on Laurel.
The room erupted into chaos. Several minor capos drew their weapons, but Declan didn't even flinch.
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Fourteen federal agents and state tactical police officers, accompanied by the United States Attorney, poured through the side entrances with assault rifles raised.
""Thomas Harrow, Margot Harrow, Salvatore Genovese,"" the lead federal agent announced through a megaphone. ""Drop your weapons! The building is surrounded!""
