Chapter 13 - THE SEVENTIETH FLOOR
The first gray light of dawn was breaking over the steel-and-glass spires of midtown Manhattan when the boat rammed against the private service dock of the Romano Commercial Basin.
The rain had finally subsided into a dense, freezing mist that hovered over the oily harbor water.
Matteo cut the engines, leaping onto the slick wooden pier and tying off the bow line in three swift motions.
Together, they transferred Samuel Romano into a heavy-duty folding medical transport chair they had retrieved from the boat’s emergency hold.
The old man was wrapped in a tailored black wool overcoat that Matteo had pulled from the boathouse locker, covering his bare chest and the medical leads taped to his skin.
Samuel’s face was pale, his silver hair windswept and wild, but his dark eyes were burning with cold, ancient fury.
Across the street, rising seventy stories into the low clouds, stood the Romano Tower, the gleaming corporate headquarters of the family’s legitimate enterprise.
Dozens of black town cars and luxury sedans were parked along the private plaza, their exhaust pipes sending white plumes into the freezing morning air.
The board of directors had assembled.
"Raymond pulled the emergency quorum together forty minutes early," Matteo said, checking his watch as he pushed the wheelchair across the marble plaza.
"Six-twenty AM."
"He only needs three executive proxy signatures to transfer the harbor leases permanently to his front company."
Claire walked beside the chair, her service weapon concealed beneath her open navy tactical jacket, her gold shield gleaming against her dark shirt.
Her uniform was stained with mud, blood, and river salt, but her posture was that of an executioner arriving to read a final sentence.
They entered through the lower loading dock, bypassing the grand marble atrium where private security guards were distracted by the fleet of limousines.
Claire used a master service elevator keycard she had carried in her maid uniform pocket for four months.
The steel doors slid shut with a heavy hydraulic hiss, sealing them inside the rising cubicle.
Floor forty.
Floor fifty.
Floor sixty.
Samuel reached out his frail, weathered hand and caught Matteo’s wrist.
"Listen to me, boy," Samuel said, his voice quiet but commanding as iron.
"When we walk through those double doors, you do not draw your weapon."
"Grandpa, Raymond tried to kill you," Matteo said, his voice trembling with dark fury.
"Raymond is a fool who drowned in his own greed," the old man said, his eyes locking onto his grandson with piercing clarity.
"If you shoot him in front of that board, you become the monster they have always accused us of being."
"You destroy thirty years of my legitimate work in five seconds of petty vengeance."
"Let the law tear him apart."
"Let Detective Bennett take the shield back."
Matteo looked at Claire, seeing the silent resolution in her eyes, and slowly released his grip on the carbine sling beneath his coat.
"Understood, Grandpa."
The elevator chime sounded with a clean, melodic tone.
Floor seventy.
The Penthouse Executive Boardroom.
The doors parted, revealing a vast corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the waking skyline of New York.
At the end of the hall, two private security contractors in matching gray suits stood guard outside the frosted glass double doors of the boardroom.
When they saw the wheelchair and the mud-splattered detective, both men reached instinctively toward their armpits.
"Don't even twitch," Claire said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that carried down the carpeted hall like an icy draft.
She raised her left hand, flashing her gold shield, while her right hand rested firmly on the grip of her holstered Glock.
"State Police."
"Interference with an active capital investigation carries a mandatory twenty-year sentence in maximum security."
"Step away from the threshold right now."
The two guards looked at Claire’s cold, predatory eyes, then looked at the living ghost of Samuel Romano seated in the wheelchair.
Both men slowly dropped their hands to their sides, took two paces backward, and turned their eyes toward the carpet.
Matteo pushed the wheelchair forward, planted his boot against the center of the heavy double doors, and kicked them open with a thunderous crash that shattered the quiet hum of the boardroom.
Inside, twenty-four senior executives, corporate lawyers, and bank trustees sat around a sixty-foot table of polished Brazilian rosewood.
At the head of the table stood Raymond Romano, his tailored suit rumpled, his hair disheveled, holding an electronic stylus over a glowing digital tablet.
Standing beside him, clutching his heavily bandaged right wrist in a black sling, stood Deputy Chief Frank Miller.
Raymond froze mid-signature, the color instantly draining from his face until his skin looked like wet paper.
Every director in the room turned in their leather chairs, gasping in collective, horrified shock.
Samuel Romano leaned forward in the wheelchair, resting his liver-spotted hands on his silver-tipped cane, and surveyed the room with the sovereign coldness of an emperor returning from the grave.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Samuel said, his voice echoing across the silent boardroom like a funeral bell.
May you like
"I apologize for my tardiness."
"The traffic from Pelham Bay was surprisingly murderous."
