Chapter 3 - The Traitor’s Toast
The penthouse suite on the 45th floor of the Caruso Grand was a masterclass in silent power.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered a sweeping, panoramic view of the rain-slicked city skyline. A grand fireplace crackled with dry birch wood, casting orange light over leather armchairs, crystal decanters, and priceless Renaissance oil paintings.
Julian Vance, Esq., stood near the fireplace, sipping a glass of twenty-year-old single malt scotch.
He was fifty-one years old, sharply dressed in a bespoke Italian suit, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and carrying a leather briefcase that held the legal secrets of three state senators and five crime families.
The private double doors clicked open, and Vincent walked into the room.
Julian turned around, a warm, confident, theatrical smile breaking across his face.
“Vincent!” Julian exclaimed, walking forward with his hand extended. “Dominic told me there was an emergency meeting! I came as fast as I could from the opera. Is everything alright with the three family heads downstairs? Did the negotiation go smoothly?”
Vincent did not shake his hand.
He walked past Julian, stepping over to the bar to pour himself two fingers of dark bourbon.
“The negotiation was delayed, Julian,” Vincent said casually, swishing the amber liquid in his crystal glass. “We had a small security glitch near the VIP blue door.”
Julian’s hand froze mid-air for a fraction of a second before he smoothly retracted it, taking a small sip of his scotch.
“A glitch?” Julian asked, his brow furrowing in practiced, professional concern. “What kind of glitch? Is our encryption software acting up again? I told the IT contractors that those biometric locks need weekly updates.”
“It wasn't a software issue,” Vincent said, walking over to stand near the glass window, looking out at the rain. “It was a human issue. A man dressed as a maintenance engineer tried to enter the private suite with a suppressed pistol.”
Julian let out a sharp, shocked gasp. He set his crystal glass down on the mahogany table with a loud clink.
“My God, Vincent!” Julian gasped, stepping closer, his hands shaking slightly—a masterclass in performance. “Are you alright? Was anyone hurt? Who was he? Did security take him down?”
“He’s alive,” Vincent said quietly. “Dominic is currently having a conversation with him in the sub-basement.”
Julian swallowed hard. His gold-rimmed glasses reflected the firelight, hiding the sudden, microscopic dilation of his pupils.
“Did... did the assassin say who sent him?” Julian asked, his voice dropping into a tense, conspiratorial whisper. “Was it the Moretti family? I knew we couldn't trust their truce agreement!”
Vincent turned around slowly. He looked at his lawyer—the man who had defended him in three federal trials, the man who had celebrated his weddings, the man who knew every secret account Vincent owned.
“The assassin didn't speak, Julian,” Vincent said softly. “He didn't need to. He had a document in his pocket.”
Vincent reached into his inner suit jacket, pulled out the folded parchment paper, and tossed it onto the table beside Julian’s scotch glass.
Julian looked down at the paper.
The handwriting. The biometric codes. The signature: Julian Vance, Esq.
The color drained from Julian’s face so fast it looked as though his blood had been instantly drained into his shoes.
“Vincent...” Julian whispered, his hands trembling violently as he backed away from the table. “Vincent, listen to me... this is a frame job! It’s a setup! Someone forged my handwriting! Someone stole my clearance codes!”
“Nobody stole your codes, Julian,” Vincent said, taking a calm sip of his bourbon. “The biometric key for the blue door was generated at 7:15 p.m. tonight from the private terminal inside your legal office on 5th Avenue.”
Julian backed up until his spine hit the cold glass window.
“Why?” Vincent asked softly, his voice devoid of anger, carrying only a terrifying, hollow grief. “I paid you three million dollars a year, Julian. I bought your house in the Hamptons. I put your daughters through Harvard. Why sell me to the Morettis?”
Julian’s face twisted. The charming, sophisticated lawyer vanished, replaced by a desperate, trapped animal with sneering, bitter eyes.
“Because you’re a dinosaur, Vincent!” Julian spat, his voice cracking with sudden rage. “The federal government has been building a RICO indictment against you for two years! It’s over! The Morettis offered me immunity! They offered me twenty percent of the shipping docks once you were removed!”
Vincent closed his eyes for two seconds, letting the betrayal settle into his chest.
“Immunity,” Vincent repeated softly.
The private elevator doors behind Julian clicked open.
Dominic stepped out, holding a thick leather folder.
“Boss,” Dominic said grimly. “We checked Vance’s offshore accounts. The first transfer from the Moretti front company hit his account in the Caymans forty-eight hours ago. Two million dollars.”
Vincent opened his eyes. He set his glass down on the mantelpiece.
“You forgot one thing, Julian,” Vincent said quietly, stepping toward the traitor.
“What?” Julian stammered, sweating profusely now, pressing his hands against the glass behind him.
“You thought you were dealing with a simple legal corporate restructuring,” Vincent said, leaning in until his face was inches from Julian’s pale, sweat-slicked nose. “You forgot that I am a Caruso. And in my world... treason is not resolved in a courtroom.”
Vincent nodded to Dominic.
Dominic stepped forward, pulling a pair of heavy, black tactical zip-ties from his coat.
“Take him to the warehouse near the docks,” Vincent commanded neutrally. “And call the Moretti family. Tell them their legal counsel has experienced an unfortunate change in representation.”
Julian began to scream, thrashing desperately as Dominic pinned his arms behind his back, dragging him toward the private elevator.
“Vincent! Please! We’ve known each other for twelve years! Vincent!”
The elevator doors closed, cutting off his shrieks in an instant.
May you like
The penthouse was silent again.
Vincent stood alone near the crackling fireplace, looking out at the rain-drenched city, realizing that the war he had spent five years trying to avoid... had just begun.
