Chapter 8 - The Grand Palace Summit
The penthouse of the Grand Palace Hotel offered a 360-degree panoramic view of the entire snow-covered skyline. It was where the true lords of the city met to divide up territories, sign off on hits, and decide which politicians would win the next election.
Four men sat around a massive mahogany conference table in the center of the glass-walled room: Lord Sterling, the elder statesman of the city's financial elite; Viktor Petrov, the head of the Eastern Bloc arms trade; Judge Harrison, who controlled the courts; and Anthony Moretti, the kingpin of the docks.
At the head of the table sat an empty chair meant for me.
"Gabriel’s body was found in the catacombs under Vance Manor," Petrov said in his thick accent, lighting a cigar. "The house burned to the ground. But Julian isn't dead."
"He's a ghost," Harrison muttered nervously, adjusting his silk tie. "If he has that ledger, every one of us goes to federal prison for the rest of our lives—or worse."
"He doesn't have the leverage to use it," Sterling said coldly, sipping his scotch. "Julian is a street fighter. He understands blood, not legal maneuvers. We hit his safehouses, we find the girl, and we end this."
The heavy double doors of the penthouse opened.
Every guard in the room—eight heavily armed men—raised their weapons in an instant.
I walked in alone.
I wore no body armor, carried no long rifles, and made no effort to hide. My black leather coat was unbuttoned, showing the ink on my wrists and the holstered Kimber at my hip. In my left hand, I carried a single black leather briefcase.
"Julian," Sterling said, leaning back in his chair with a cold, calculated smile. "You always did have terrible timing."
"Lower your guns," I said calmly, looking at the eight guards. "Or don't. It won't change what happens in this room today."
"You came here to surrender?" Moretti sneered. "After burning half the city last night?"
I set the briefcase down on the center of the mahogany table, unlatched the brass locks with two sharp clicks, and flipped the lid open.
Inside lay thirty encrypted flash drives and three hundred pages of signed, notarized original documents—the complete bloodline ledger.
"I didn't come to surrender," I said, placing my hands flat on the table, leaning over the four men. "I came to deliver your termination notices."
Harrison’s face went pale. "What is that?"
"Every bribe paid to your courts, Harrison," I said softly. "Every arms shipment you approved, Petrov. Every offshore account you opened to launder human trafficking money, Sterling. At 11:45 AM, duplicate copies of these files were delivered to the Federal Prosecutor’s Office, the Department of Justice, and every major news outlet in the country."
"You're lying!" Sterling spat, standing up so fast his chair rolled back against the glass wall. "You wouldn't ruin yourself! You're in those papers too!"
"I don't care about myself anymore," I replied, my eyes locked on his. "I cared about power once. I cared about respect. But last night, I remembered what it feels like to be human. And none of you deserve to breathe the same air as my family."
"Kill him!" Sterling shrieked at the guards.
None of the guards moved.
From the shadow of the entryway, two men stepped forward. They weren't mercenaries hired by the High Table; they were my old enforcers—the men who had served me before Gabriel tried to turn the Syndicate into his personal fiefdom.
"Their paychecks cleared this morning from my private reserve," I said quietly. "And unlike Gabriel, I never missed a payment."
The guards slowly lowered their weapons, stepping back toward the walls.
May you like
"It's over," I told the four men at the table. "You have ten minutes before the federal agents hit the lobby. I suggest you enjoy the view while you can."
I turned my back on them and walked out of the penthouse.
