Chapter 9 - Blood in the Boardroom
The sight of the federal tactical team entering the executive penthouse caused the gathered press corps to surge backward in a frantic stampede.
Cables were ripped from camera housings, lights tilted wildly toward the ceiling, and reporters flattened themselves against the mahogany-paneled walls.
Julian Vance lay across the conference table, his chest heaving as the United States Marshals advanced with their sidearms drawn in low-ready positions.
Yet instead of raising his hands in surrender, Julian’s eyes flickered toward the private executive terrace doors behind the dais.
Standing just inside the shadow of the heavy velvet curtains was a tall, heavily scarred man wearing an unmarked private security uniform.
It was Hector Vargas, Julian’s personal bodyguard and the former commander of an elite private military contracting outfit out of South America.
Vargas did not hesitate.
He reached inside his heavy tactical vest, pulling a suppressed MP7 submachine gun from beneath his coat.
"Vargas, clear the room!" Julian screamed from the table.
Before the federal marshals could reorient their weapons past the sea of panicking journalists, Vargas brought the submachine gun to his shoulder.
"Drop down!" Claire screamed, lunging toward Elena Vance to tackle the other woman behind the reinforced marble lectern.
The sharp, chattering crack of automatic gunfire tore through the luxury penthouse, shattering the eighty-inch display monitors into thousands of raining glass shards.
Ceiling plaster rained down in white sheets as bullets chewed through the antique mahogany woodwork above the dais.
Matteo moved with the terrifying, predatory instinct born of surviving three decades in the crosshairs of violent men.
Ignoring the burning agony in his injured shoulder, he threw himself across the conference table, intercepting Julian before his uncle could roll toward the terrace.
Matteo drove his elbow into Julian’s ribs, pinning the older man to the floor with the full weight of his body.
Across the room, Marcus Cole dropped to one knee behind an overturned executive leather sofa.
Marcus raised his tactical shotgun, leveled the barrel over the upholstery, and squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession.
The thunderous roar of the twelve-gauge buckshot obliterated the velvet curtains, shredding the fabric into smoking ribbons.
Vargas took the full brunt of the second blast to his ballistic chest plate, the kinetic force throwing him backward through the shattered glass doors of the terrace.
The mercenary hit the wet limestone terrace floor, his weapon skittering away across the rainy concrete forty stories above the street.
"Federal marshals, move! Move!" the lead FBI agent roared, leading four tactical officers up the dais steps.
Two marshals pinned Julian Vance’s arms behind his back, wrenching his wrists into heavy steel handcuffs with a brutal, satisfying click.
A third agent secured Vargas on the terrace, kneeling on the mercenary’s spine and calling for an ambulance over her tactical radio.
The gunfire had lasted less than twelve seconds, but the executive penthouse looked like an active war zone.
Smoke from the shotgun blasts drifted through the shattered glass of the terrace, mingling with the freezing Chicago rain blowing into the room.
Claire pushed herself up from behind the marble lectern, brushing white plaster dust from her damp hair.
She helped Elena Vance to her feet; the compliance officer was shaking, but her dark eyes remained focused and unbroken.
Claire turned toward the center of the room, her heart pounding with a sudden, sickening terror.
"Matteo!" she called out, her voice cutting through the ringing in her ears.
Matteo was standing slowly beside the conference table, his right hand pressed against his left ribs.
His face was chalk-white, and his breath came in sharp, shallow gasps through clenched teeth.
Claire ran toward him, her hands instinctively checking his chest, his arms, and his injured shoulder.
"Where are you hit?" she demanded, her voice trembling with genuine, uncontrolled panic.
"Did he hit you again?"
Matteo looked down at her, his pale gray eyes softening as he took in the sheer terror on her face.
"I am fine, Claire," he whispered, his voice gravelly and rough.
"The table took the rounds."
"Just... two bruised ribs from tackling my dear uncle onto the oak."
Claire let out a shuddering breath that sounded half like a sob and half like a laugh, leaning her forehead against his chest for a single, fleeting second.
She could feel the furious, powerful beat of his heart beneath his torn shirt, steady and alive against the chaos of the room.
Matteo raised his uninjured right hand, his fingers gently brushing a streak of plaster dust from her cheek.
For that brief, silent moment, surrounded by federal agents, broken glass, and flashing emergency lights, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
Behind them, Julian Vance was hauled to his feet by two burly marshals.
His face was covered in sweat and grey plaster dust, his expensive suit ruined, his silver hair plastered across his forehead.
He struggled violently against the steel cuffs, his eyes burning with insane, desperate malice as he glared at Matteo and Claire.
"You think this is over, you self-righteous little parasites?" Julian snarled, spitting blood onto the carpet.
"You think putting me in a cage brings those four dead bums back to life?"
"You think it cleans the blood off the Romano name?"
"Every dollar in your trust fund, Matteo, was mined from the gutter!"
"Your father was a gangster who died pretending to be a saint!"
"And you... you're going to spend the rest of your pathetic life answering subpoenas from every federal agency on the eastern seaboard!"
Claire turned slowly to face him, stepping forward until she stood directly in front of the disgraced executive.
She reached out, plucked the white linen envelope from the table, and held it inches from Julian’s nose.
"The only person answering subpoenas from this day forward is you, Julian," Claire said, her voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute authority.
"I have your voice on an unalterable master recording ordering the execution of four men."
"I have the toxicological manifests proving you poisoned your brother with thallium."
"I have the offshore routing numbers for every dollar of chemical precursor profits you laundered through Panama."
"And tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, I am filing a motion in federal court to freeze every single personal asset you possess on this earth."
"You will not have enough money left to buy a stale candy bar from the commissary at ADX Florence."
Julian’s eyes widened with pure, helpless terror as the full, inescapable reality of his destruction finally settled into his mind.
He looked toward his daughter, his voice breaking into a pathetic, desperate whine.
"Elena... Elena, tell them."
"Tell them I did it for the family."
"I did it to protect your inheritance, sweetheart."
Elena Vance adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, looking at her father with an expression of cold, clinical detachment.
"My inheritance was an honest name, Father," Elena said softly.
"And you buried that in the ashes of Westbridge eleven months ago."
"Take him away," the FBI lead agent commanded, shoving Julian toward the service elevator.
As the elevators chimed and the federal convoy dragged Julian Vance into the custody of the United States government, the remaining reporters began cautiously stepping forward, their cameras aimed at Matteo and Claire.
"Mr. Romano! Will Romano Holdings survive the federal indictment?"
"Ms. Bennett! What does this mean for the seventy-eight-million-dollar lawsuit?"
Matteo raised his uninjured hand, his imposing presence commanding instant silence across the ruined boardroom.
He looked at Claire, then turned his gaze directly into the center television camera lens.
"Romano Holdings will cooperate fully and transparently with every federal, state, and municipal authority," Matteo announced.
"Every asset tied to the illicit operations of Julian Vance will be liquidated immediately."
"And as for Ms. Bennett’s lawsuit..."
Matteo paused, turning his head to look down at Claire with an expression of profound, unyielding respect.
May you like
"Ms. Bennett and I will conclude our negotiations in private."
"The press conference is officially over."
