Chapter 5 - The War Room
Matteo’s lips curved into a slow, grim smile that was more blade than expression.
“Now you’re talking like your father,” he said.
He tapped a key on his console, illuminating a massive wall monitor that displayed the live floor of the Boston Financial Center.
The news tickers across the bottom of the screen were flashing in bright, hysterical red:
KENSINGTON WEDDING SHATTERED IN ARMED RAID; FALCONE SYNDICATE ACCUSED OF KIDNAPPING HEIRESS.
A press conference was currently broadcasting live from the steps of the cathedral.
Arthur Pendleton stood at the microphone, flanked by three prominent city councilmen and the Boston Commissioner of Police.
Arthur had discarded his torn tuxedo jacket and wore a dark woolen coat, his eyes brimming with theatrical tears, clutching a photograph of Victoria against his chest.
“I am pleading with Matteo Falcone to release my bride unharmed,” Arthur said into the bank of microphones, his voice trembling with manufactured agony. “Victoria is fragile. She has suffered unimaginable grief since William’s passing, and this barbaric criminal is using her as a pawn to extort our maritime assets.”
The police commissioner stepped forward, promising a citywide manhunt and declaring all Falcone commercial terminals under immediate emergency surveillance.
Victoria watched the broadcast with clinical detachment.
“He’s using the media to box you in,” she observed, her arms crossed over her cashmere sweater. “If you produce the recording now, his lawyers will claim it was fabricated by your associates to justify a kidnapping.”
“Arthur is very skilled at building walls of noise,” Matteo agreed, shutting off the audio. “He controls the local press, the port authority board, and two federal district judges who owe their campaigns to his holding firms.”
“Then we don't fight him in his courtroom,” Victoria said.
Matteo walked around the table, resting his hip against the teak edge, watching her with sharp, appraising focus.
“What are you thinking, Victoria?”
“Tomorrow is the quarterly general meeting of Kensington Global Freight,” she said, her voice dropping into the precise, rhythmic cadence of a board chairman. “Arthur called it three weeks ago to ratify the acquisition.”
She stepped up to the chart table, tapping the digital representation of the Kensington headquarters tower in downtown Boston.
“The merger requires two distinct conditions to take effect,” Victoria explained. “First, the physical endorsement of the stock certificates held in the corporate master vault. Second, the personal, in-person authorization of the majority voting trustee.”
“Which was supposed to be Arthur through your spousal proxy,” Matteo noted.
“Except we never finished the ceremony,” Victoria said, a cold, predatory light entering her eyes. “The officiant never signed the register. The civil clerk never received the license. I am not his wife, Matteo. I am still the sole voting trustee of eighty-four percent of Kensington Freight.”
Matteo leaned back, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“Arthur thinks you’re trapped out here on the peninsula,” Matteo murmured. “He thinks my compound will be surrounded by federal marshals by midnight.”
“He thinks I’m a victim waiting to be rescued,” Victoria said, looking directly into Matteo’s dark eyes. “He forgot that my father taught me how to steer a container ship through a Category Four hurricane when I was nineteen.”
She leaned over the nautical chart, tracing the maritime boundary line between Marblehead and the Boston commercial harbor.
“The marshals will be watching the highways, the bridges, and the private airfields,” she continued. “How fast can your offshore cutters reach the mouth of the Charles River?”
Matteo looked down at the map, then up at the woman standing beside him.
“Thirty-four minutes in heavy seas,” Matteo replied, his gaze intense and unwavering. “And my harbor pilots know every underwater tunnel beneath the commercial wharves.”
May you like
Victoria reached out, picking up her father’s damaged thumb drive from the table.
“Then let Arthur have his press conferences tonight,” she said softly. “Tomorrow morning, we’re going to board our own ship.”
