Chapter 14 - Dinner at Pier Fourteen
The Royal Maritime Yacht Club sat at the very end of Pier 14, a sprawling, colonial-style wooden pavilion that extended two hundred yards out over the choppy, oil-slicked waters of the bay.
Through its tall leaded-glass windows, wealthy elites in white dinner jackets and silk evening gowns could be seen dining on lobster and vintage champagne, completely oblivious to the empire collapsing around them.
A single black armored sedan slid silently into the gravel parking lot beside the clubhouse.
The doors opened simultaneously.
Vincent stepped out first, his charcoal suit jacket buttoned tight against the damp evening wind.
Behind him came Vivienne, wearing a long black wool trench coat over her ivory pantsuit, her dark hair blowing across her face in wild strands.
Marcus and Viktor flanked them on either side, carrying heavy tactical breach cases.
The club’s private security guard—a burly man in a navy blazer—stepped out from the double oak doors as they approached the steps.
“Excuse me, this is a private members-only—”
Vincent didn't break his stride.
He caught the guard by the lapels of his blazer, lifted him six inches off the ground, and drove him hard against the wooden pillar of the porch.
The guard’s eyes went wide with terror as he stared into Vincent’s dead, black eyes.
“You’re off duty tonight,” Vincent whispered.
He released the man, who stumbled backward down the steps and scrambled into the shadows of the parking lot without another word.
Marcus kicked the double oak doors open with a thunderous crash that echoed through the luxurious dining hall like a depth charge.
The sound of silver cutlery striking porcelain stopped instantly.
Eighty heads turned toward the entryway.
Arthur Sterling Senior—a tall, skeletal man in his seventies with sharp aristocratic features and thinning white hair—sat at the head table near the back windows, raising a glass of champagne.
He froze, his glass halfway to his mouth.
“What is the meaning of this—” Sterling started to say, standing up from his chair.
Then his eyes landed on the young woman walking down the center aisle behind Vincent Hale.
Sterling’s jaw dropped.
The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering across the white tablecloth and spilling wine like blood over the linen.
“You...” Sterling choked out, gripping the edge of the mahogany table.
“You died in the fire.”
Vivienne stopped ten feet from his table.
She pulled off her black leather gloves, letting them drop onto the floor one by one.
“You made a very expensive mistake, Mr. Sterling,” Vivienne said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room.
“You thought that if you burned the family, you could bury the debt.”
Sterling backed up until his spine hit the leaded glass window overlooking the dark harbor.
Panic flickered across his aged, arrogant features.
He reached frantically into his tuxedo pocket, pulled out a satellite phone, and stabbed frantically at the screen.
“Security!” Sterling screamed toward the kitchen doors.
“Call the coast guard! Have these lunatics removed!”
Nothing happened.
The kitchen doors remained closed.
Marcus stepped past Sterling, holding up a small digital jammer that blinked with a steady red light.
“Cell towers, marine radios, and satellite uplinks within a two-mile radius are currently feeding into a Faraday cage, Mr. Sterling,” Marcus said smoothly.
“Your offshore wire transfers stopped clearing three minutes ago.”
Arthur Sterling Senior’s knees buckled.
He sank back down into his chair, the veneer of untouchable power completely stripped away.
“You can't touch me,” Sterling stammered, looking around the room at the terrified socialites who were now scrambling toward the side exits.
“I am the legal foundation of this city’s financial district.”
Vincent stepped up beside Vivienne.
He placed his hand gently against the small of her back, a gesture of absolute, unbreakable solidarity.
May you like
“Your foundation was built on ash, Arthur,” Vincent said softly.
“And tonight, the fire comes home.”
