Chapter 8 - Dinner with the Devil
The Marcone estate looked like a Renaissance palace carved out of European stone, surrounded by towering iron gates and manicured gardens that reeked of old money and spilled blood.
Silas’s Mercedes pulled up to the grand entrance precisely at 8:00 PM.
Two armed guards opened the car doors. Silas stepped out first, his shoulders squared, his charcoal suit tailored to perfection. He turned immediately, offering his hand to Elara. She took it, stepping out onto the cobblestone driveway with the poise of a queen walking into her own coronation.
They were escorted through double mahogany doors into a grand dining hall where Don Victor Marcone sat at the head of a massive oak table, flanked by four silent, heavily armed bodyguards.
"Silas," Marcone wheezed, an artificial smile stretching across his wrinkled, scarred face. "Welcome. I must admit, I didn't expect you to have the courage to accept my invitation in person. And you brought a guest?"
Marcone’s eyes lingered on Elara, his gaze sliding over her emerald-green silk dress with predatory amusement. "A very lovely guest. Is this the little runaway who caused all that trouble for Julian Vance?"
Silas’s eyes flashed with lethal intent, but his voice remained smooth as glass. "Watch your tongue, Victor. You invited us to discuss business, not manners."
"Business, of course," Marcone chuckled, gesturing to the empty seats opposite him. "Sit. Eat. Let’s talk about how we divide the northern docks."
Neither Silas nor Elara touched the food or wine.
"There is nothing to divide, Victor," Silas said, leaning back in his chair, resting his hands casually on the armrests. "Your shipping contracts are void. Your distribution lines are mine. And as of forty-eight hours ago, your financial lifeline has been severed."
Marcone’s smile faltered. "What are you talking about?"
Elara opened the leather folder she had brought and slid a single document across the polished wood toward the aging mob boss.
"Vanguard Holdings," Elara said, her voice clear, steady, and utterly chilling. "Your primary asset-holding corporation. At 8:15 PM tonight—fifteen minutes ago—federal indictments were filed freezing every single bank account, offshore trust, and commercial property registered under your name. Your liquid capital is gone, Don Marcone. Your capos haven't been paid in three weeks, and your legal defense fund is sitting in a frozen federal holding account."
Marcone stared at the paper, his face turning the color of ash. He snatched the document up, his hands shaking violently as he scanned the injunction numbers.
"This... this is a forgery!" Marcone roared, slamming his fist onto the table so hard the crystal glasses rattled. "Kill them! Kill them both right now!"
The four bodyguards behind Marcone instantly raised their weapons, leveling their barrels directly at Silas and Elara.
Elara didn't flinch.
Because at that exact second, the overhead lights in the grand dining hall flickered, buzzed, and died.
Total darkness plunged the room into chaos.
Bang. Bang.
Flashes of muzzle fire illuminated the dining room in strobe-like bursts. Silas moved with terrifying, predatory speed. Before Marcone’s men could acquire their targets, Silas had drawn his sidearm, firing twice through the dark with absolute, chilling precision. Two bodies hit the marble floor with dull thuds.
The remaining two guards panicked, trying to pivot toward Silas, but a window shattered behind them as Teddy and an elite strike team dropped rappelling lines straight into the room, subduing the guards in a flurry of tactical combat.
The emergency backup generator kicked in, flooding the room with a harsh, red security glow.
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Silas stood over Don Victor Marcone, who was cowering in his chair, staring up at the barrel of Silas’s gun with absolute terror.
"You wanted a war, Victor," Silas said quietly, pressing the cold steel against Marcone’s forehead. "You just lost."
