Chapter 4 - Wolves at the Table
"They're early," Grace whispered, looking at the glowing security monitor.
"Victor is always early when he senses an advantage," I said, my voice hardening back into the rhythm of command. "He wants to see my state of mind before Marco arrives."
I stepped behind the desk and opened the lower drawer. I pulled out a second weapon—a compact SIG Sauer P365—and checked the chamber. I walked over to Grace, took her right hand, and placed the cold metal into her palm.
She looked down at it, her fingers curling automatically around the textured grip.
"Safety is on the left," I told her, holding her gaze. "It's off now. If anyone other than me or Marco attempts to enter the nursery wing, you aim for the center of the chest and you empty the magazine. Do not hesitate. Do not ask for explanations."
Grace looked at the gun, then back at me. "I don't believe in weapons, Mr. Romano."
"You believe in keeping those three girls breathing, don't you?"
A brief, sharp pause. "Yes."
"Then you believe in this weapon. Go upstairs. Lock the vault door. Do not come down until I call you."
Grace nodded once, slipped the pistol into the deep pocket of her apron, and slipped out of the library, moving as silently as smoke.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my silk tie in the wall mirror, smoothed the lapels of my dark gray suit, and walked out into the grand foyer just as the heavy oak front doors swung open.
A gust of wet, autumn wind blew into the hall, carrying the smell of rain and wet asphalt.
Paulie stood on the threshold, shaking water from his trench coat. His massive frame seemed to swallow the light. Behind him, Victor shook out a black umbrella, handing it to Paulie with an effortless, aristocratic dismissal.
"Dominic," Victor said, his smile spreading across his face like oil on water. "Marco called. Said you had some pressing questions about the Newark port allocations? I told him it could have waited until morning, but you know how our dear underboss is—he gets nervous when the numbers don't add up to even thousands."
"Come in, Victor. Paulie," I said, keeping my hands resting casually in my trouser pockets. "You know how I am about numbers. They either balance, or somebody pays the difference."
Victor chuckled, unbuttoning his coat and hanging it on the brass stand in the alcove. As he did, the chandelier light caught the platinum watch on his left wrist. The sapphire bezel gleamed against his pale skin. And there, pinned through his French cuffs, were the gold lions with ruby eyes.
Fourteen months ago, those lions had been visible through the rolled-down window of a gray sedan outside a preschool in Garden City.
A savage, primal urge surged through my nerves—to lunge forward, drive my thumbs into his eye sockets, and tear his throat out right there on the marble floor. But Grace’s voice echoed in the back of my head: *If you destroy yourself tonight, Victor wins.*
"Paulie," I said smoothly, turning my eyes to the head of security. "Leave your piece in the foyer tray. Company policy tonight. Family business only."
Paulie blinked, a flicker of hesitation crossing his heavy features. He glanced at Victor. A microscopic exchange of looks—barely a quarter of a second—passed between them.
"Sure thing, Boss," Paulie said, unholstering his custom Glock 21 and laying it in the silver tray on the console table. "House rules."
"Drink?" I asked, turning my back on them and walking toward the drawing room. It was an intentional display of vulnerability. A man who suspects an assassination does not turn his back.
"Scotch for me, Dominic. Neat," Victor said, following closely. "How are the girls? Mrs. Donnelly mentioned upstairs was quiet today."
"The girls are fine," I replied, pouring two fingers of twenty-year-old Macallan into a crystal tumbler. "Actually, they had a breakthrough today."
Victor stopped two feet from the bar, his hand halfway to the glass. "A breakthrough?"
"They sang," I said, handing him the drink.
The glass clinked faintly against his gold ring. His eyes narrowed behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, searching my face with surgical precision. "They sang? After fourteen months? Dominic, that's... that's extraordinary. What did they sing?"
"*You Are My Sunshine,*" I said. "Isabelle’s song."
Victor took a slow sip of the scotch. His throat moved as he swallowed. "Remarkable. The human brain is a resilient thing, isn't it? Trauma fades eventually. Life finds a way to move on."
"Does it?" I asked, leaning against the mahogany bar. "Sophie spoke, too."
This time, the reaction was unmistakable. The tumbler in Victor’s hand tilted slightly, the amber liquid splashing against the crystal edge. Paulie, who was standing by the drawing room archway, shifted his weight, his right shoulder dipping forward—the universal muscle memory of a man reaching for a holster that was no longer there.
"Sophie spoke?" Victor asked, his voice pitching a fraction higher. "What did she say?"
"She said she remembered the car," I said quietly.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed the quarter hour. *Bong. Bong.*
The room seemed to shrink. The shadows cast by the fireplace danced across the walls, turning the three of us into silhouettes.
"The car," Victor repeated carefully. "The police said it was an unregistered gray Honda, wasn't it? Stolen plates."
"Sophie said it wasn't a Honda," I whispered, taking a step toward him. "She said it was a dark gray Mercedes. And she said the man behind the wheel wasn't wearing a mask. She said he had a shiny watch with blue stones. And a gold lion on his sleeve."
Victor didn't drop the glass. He didn't run.
Instead, a slow, cold transformation came over his face. The polished, deferential cousin vanished. In his place was a creature of pure, calculating venom. He set the tumbler down on the bar with a soft, decisive *click*.
"She was always too observant for her own good, that child," Victor murmured. "Just like her mother."
Behind me, the sound of leather creaking told me Paulie was moving.
I didn't turn around. I didn't need to.
"You should have signed the papers, Dominic," Victor said, sighing as if disappointed by a bad investment. "If you had signed the corporate transfers six months ago, you’d be on a yacht in Antigua with a federal pension and thirty million dollars in clean bearer bonds. Isabelle was supposed to convince you. But she was stubborn. She thought you were some kind of king. She couldn't understand that the world doesn't belong to men with shotguns anymore. It belongs to men who control the servers and the ports."
"You shot her in front of our children," I said, my voice barely audible over the roaring fire.
"I didn't want to shoot her," Victor said, adjusting his spectacles. "Paulie was supposed to grab her purse and the flash drive while she walked to the car. A simple mugging gone wrong. But she fought back. She scratched Paulie’s face. She recognized my car when I pulled up to block the lane. She started screaming for the teachers. What choice did I have?"
"You had the choice to be a man," I said.
Victor laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "A man? Look at you, Dominic. You’re a relic. Brennan and his people are already moving five hundred containers through your terminals tonight. The federal warrant for your arrest on interstate racketeering has already been signed by Judge Miller in Brooklyn. It drops at midnight. By tomorrow morning, you’re in a federal holding cell, and as legal guardian and executor of Isabelle’s estate, I take custody of the trusts. And the children."
A chill went down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. "Custody of my daughters?"
"Of course," Victor sneered, stepping closer. "They’re worth eighty million dollars in trust assets. Don't worry. I’ll send them to a very prestigious boarding school in Switzerland. They’ll never have to speak again."
He glanced at the doorway. "Paulie. Put him down. Make it look like a home invasion before the feds arrive."
Paulie stepped forward, his hand slipping behind his back to draw a ceramic blade he had concealed inside his boot.
"Sorry, Boss," Paulie grunted, lunging forward with terrifying speed. "Business is business."
Before the blade could reach my throat, the heavy mahogany double doors of the drawing room slammed open with a sound like a thunderclap.
"Business is over, you piece of garbage," Marco’s voice roared.
May you like
A deafening blast echoed through the room.
***
