Chapter 3 - The Boardroom Dinner
The glass boardroom on the forty-second floor of the Romano Tower offered an uninterrupted view of the storm lashing Lake Michigan.
The conference table was cut from a single slab of black Italian marble, reflecting the warm glow of recessed halogen lights. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, streaks of lightning illuminated the industrial cranes of the southern waterfront in eerie violet flashes.
Anthony Romano sat at the center of the table, sipping an aged scotch, his expensive Italian suit immaculate.
He looked relaxed, confident, and utterly convinced that his path to the family throne was secure. When the double doors clicked open and Vincent walked in alone, Anthony smiled with practiced, familial warmth.
“Vincent,” Anthony said, rising to his feet and opening his arms for the customary embrace. “You had me worried. The gossip on the docks said your morning convoy ran into a mechanical delay.”
Vincent didn't return the embrace.
He walked around the marble table, pulled out the heavy leather executive chair opposite his cousin, and sat down without taking his dark overcoat off.
“It wasn't a mechanical delay, Anthony,” Vincent said, resting his large hands flat against the polished stone. “It was an execution attempt. Someone cut the brake lines and punctured the fuel reserve.”
Anthony’s eyes widened with theatrical horror.
He clapped a hand to his chest, shaking his head in disbelief. “My God! In our own garage? Vincent, who was on duty? Marcus should be stripped of his badge tonight! That is an unforgivable security breach!”
“Marcus did his job,” Vincent replied smoothly, his gaze unwavering. “A seven-year-old child gave the warning before I ever touched the door handle.”
Anthony blinked. A tiny, imperceptible twitch rippled through his left eyelid.
“A child?” Anthony asked, forcing a light chuckle. “A child playing in the maintenance bay? Vincent, don't tell me you’re basing security decisions on the imagination of a maid’s daughter.”
Vincent reached into his coat pocket and placed a clear plastic evidence bag onto the center of the marble table.
Inside the bag was a scorched brass keycard stamped with Anthony’s personal executive code—the card recovered from the captured gunmen at the northern warehouse.
Beside it, Vincent placed a high-resolution printout of the surveillance override authorization, bearing Anthony’s biometric signature.
The smile on Anthony’s face froze, then slowly decayed into a gray, waxen grimace.
“What is this?” Anthony whispered, his voice losing its polished tone.
“That is your retirement, cousin,” Vincent said softly.
The side doors of the boardroom swung open with a muffled thud.
Marcus stepped through, followed by two armed enforcers carrying heavy leather portfolios. Behind them stood Maria Alvarez, holding Sophie’s hand.
Sophie wore a clean wool coat, still clutching her stuffed rabbit. She looked across the long marble table, her wide eyes landing squarely on Anthony’s face.
“Sophie,” Vincent said gently, without looking away from his cousin. “Do you recognize this man?”
Sophie looked at Anthony’s expensive suit, then pointed a small, steady finger toward his left hand resting on the table.
“He came into the garage yesterday afternoon,” Sophie said clearly, her small voice echoing in the vast, quiet room. “He gave the man with the snake tattoo a brown envelope and told him to make sure the black car didn't make it past the bridge.”
Anthony jumped up from his chair, knocking his crystal glass onto the marble. The amber liquor splashed across the evidence bags.
“She’s lying!” Anthony screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the little girl. “She’s a maid’s brat! You’re taking the word of a cleaning woman’s child over your own blood?”
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Vincent rose from his seat, towering over his cousin with a presence so suffocating that the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Her blood warned me of danger,” Vincent whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal certainty. “Your blood tried to burn me on the highway.”
