Chapter 24
The grand rotunda of the Royal Ontario Museum was bathed in shimmering sapphire light, reflecting off the towering dinosaur fossils and ancient stone archways that framed the gala floor. Three hundred of Toronto’s wealthiest socialites, politicians, and philanthropists moved through the sprawling hall in exquisite black-tie attire, sipping champagne while a string quartet provided light, sophisticated background music.
In the center of the room sat Nessa’s priceless Cremona cello on its polished mahogany stand, waiting for the evening’s keynote musical performance.
Ezra Blackwood stood near the perimeter of the rotunda, wearing a tailored charcoal tuxedo, his eyes sweeping across every doorway, balcony, and service exit. He looked like an immaculate sculpture carved from ice and iron—completely untouchable, utterly focused.
Pavl Gorski whispered urgently through the encrypted comm-piece tucked discreetly inside Ezra's ear. "Boss, we have movement in the west gallery. Four men in security uniforms just bypassed the main badge scanners. They're carrying heavy concealed cases."
"Let them enter the rotunda," Ezra instructed quietly, his voice deadpan. "Don't alarm the guests. Let's see what Julian Cross's master plan actually looks like."
Minutes later, the heavy oak doors at the end of the grand hall swung open. Julian Cross strode into the rotunda with an air of arrogant entitlement. He was a tall, silver-haired man in his late fifties, dressed in an immaculate white tuxedo jacket that made him stand out like a predator among sheep. A cold, smug smile played across his thin lips as he walked straight toward Ezra.
"Ezra, my boy," Julian greeted smoothly, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend. "I must admit, your little philanthropic makeover is quite charming. But playing patron of the arts doesn't erase the blood in your ledger."
Ezra didn't flinch. He didn't offer his hand. "You look old, Julian. Desperation ages a man faster than prison."
Julian’s smile tightened into a vicious snarl. "You think you own this city just because you changed the name on the letterhead? The old syndicates built Toronto’s foundations, Ezra. And I’m here to take back what rightfully belongs to the vanguard."
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Before Ezra could reply, Julian snapped his fingers. The four mercenaries accompanying him pulled out heavy submachine guns from beneath their coats, raising them toward the ceiling and firing a deafening burst that shattered the ambient chatter and sent the socialites screaming in sheer terror.
"Nobody moves!" Julian yelled, pulling a pistol from his own jacket and pointing it directly at Ezra's chest. "Sign the asset transfer documents right now, Ezra, or I start turning your precious guests into collateral damage."
