Chapter 2 - Morning at the Empty Table
The boardroom on the forty-second floor of the Calder Tower smelled of dark roast espresso, polished leather, and cold air. It was 8:45 AM. For two decades, Monday morning briefings began promptly at 9:00 AM. By this time, the scent of fresh pastries from Scafuri Bakery in Little Italy should have filled the room, ordered specially because Leo Mercer was diabetic and needed sugar-free almond flour biscotti, while Dean Sorrento insisted on cannoli filled with sheep’s milk ricotta.
Today, the side buffet was barren except for a lukewarm corporate carafe of hotel coffee left by the building's cleaning staff.
Vincent sat at the head of the mahogany table, immaculate in a charcoal three-piece suit. His silver cuff links caught the morning sun. Anthony Reed sat two chairs down, his tablet resting face down, a cup of black coffee in his hand. Anthony’s face was unreadable, weathered into stone.
At 9:02 AM, the heavy double doors remained closed.
At 9:10 AM, nobody had arrived.
Vincent tapped his pen against the table. The sound was rhythmic, harsh, and echoing. “Where is Leo?”
“Not here,” Anthony said quietly.
“Call his driver.”
“I did. Driver says Leo took his wife to breakfast down in Naperville.”
Vincent’s eyes flared. “On a Monday morning? During our distribution review?”
“Evidently.”
“And Sorrento?”
“Dean had an issue at the rail terminal. A container got flagged by customs. Usually, Elena calls Councilman Ward’s office to have the port liaison fast-track the paperwork before customs opens the seal. But Dean said when he called Elena’s private cell this morning to get the liaison’s direct extension, she told him she was retired from logistics and suggested he call you directly.”
Vincent felt a surge of heat crawl up his collar. “Why didn't he call me?”
“He did. At 7:30 AM.” Anthony pointed toward Vincent’s phone on the desk.
Vincent glanced down. There was a missed call from an unknown number at 7:32 AM. “I don't answer unrecognized numbers before eight.”
“Dean got a burner after his truck was shot up last month. Elena had the number. You didn't.” Anthony took a slow sip of his bitter coffee. “By 8:15 AM, customs broke the seal. They found forty crates of undeclared Italian leather goods. Dean is currently sitting in a federal holding facility in Gary, Indiana, waiting for an attorney. He’s furious, Vincent. He feels you hung him out to dry.”
Vincent slammed his flat palm onto the table. The sharp crack made the water glasses vibrate. “I didn't hang him out! He should have called my main line! What is this, Anthony? Are these grown men acting like children because my marriage is having a private dispute?”
“This isn't about your marriage,” Anthony said, his voice dropping an octave, deadpan and steady. “This is about operations. You never realized that Elena wasn't just your wife; she was the central nervous system of your entire machine. You were the fist. She was the brain that told the fist when to strike and when to open up and shake a hand. When you told her to step aside last night in front of everyone, you cut your own wires.”
The door clicked open. Vincent looked up, expecting Frank D’Amato.
Instead, Sophia Bell walked in. She wore an expensive designer trench coat, her blond hair styled to perfection, diamond studs catching the fluorescent light. She looked entirely out of place against the dark oak and steel of the syndicate's inner sanctum.
“Vincent, darling,” she purred, walking toward him, ignoring Anthony’s icy stare. “I tried calling you three times. The boutique on Michigan Avenue declined the black card. They said there was an administrative flag on the secondary accounts. Can you fix it? I have a fitting in an hour.”
Vincent stared at her. The contrast between the storm gathering over his empire and this trivial vanity felt like a slap across the cheek.
“Sophia,” he whispered, his teeth grinding. “Go home.”
“What? But you said last night—”
“I said go home!” Vincent roared.
Sophia flinched, stepping backward, her porcelain expression cracking into genuine fear. She turned on her heels and clattered out through the heavy doors.
Anthony didn't even blink. He just watched Vincent breathe through his flared nostrils.
May you like
“The black cards run through the family trust,” Anthony noted quietly. “Elena is the sole trustee on the private consumer accounts. You signed that paperwork twelve years ago so your name wouldn't appear on domestic filings during the tax audit.”
Vincent buried his face in his hands. The silence of the empty boardroom was louder than a gunshot.
