Chapter 3 - The King's Seat
The air inside the private dining hall of the Lake Forest estate was thick with cigar smoke and the scent of expensive scotch.
Roman D’Angelo sat in the high-backed walnut chair that had belonged to Dominic for a decade. He looked comfortable. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, a heavy gold ring glinting on his finger as he tapped it against the table.
Aldo Vescari sat to his right, his old eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Carlo Neri was pouring drinks, his hands shaking slightly from a mix of adrenaline and greed.
Claire Moretti sat at the far end, her expression cold and calculating. The Moretti family had already agreed to back Roman in exchange for a thirty percent cut of the port operations.
“The transition must be seamless,” Aldo said, leaning back. “The commission will accept Roman as long as the revenue doesn't drop. But we need that ledger. Without it, we are blind to the Swiss accounts.”
“We’ll find it,” Roman said, his voice deep and confident. “Dominic’s wife is probably hiding in some hotel downtown, crying into her handkerchief. She’s a civilian. When she gets hungry enough, or scared enough, she’ll bring us the drive.”
“And what do we do with her then?” Carlo asked, a dark smile touching his lips. “She’s seen too much. Even if she’s stupid, she knows our faces.”
“We take care of her,” Roman said indifferently. “A tragic accident. Grief drives people to do desperate things. A leap from a balcony, perhaps.”
The heavy oak doors of the dining hall swung open.
The security guards Roman had posted outside did not enter. Instead, a single figure walked through the threshold.
Maya wore a simple, tailored black dress. Her hair was pulled back into a neat, elegant bun. She carried nothing but a small, silver evening clutch. Her expression was serene, her eyes untroubled, as if she were merely arriving late for a dinner party.
The men at the table froze. Roman’s hand stopped tapping.
“Maya,” Roman said, his voice recovering quickly as he stood up, adjusting his jacket. “My God, we’ve been looking for you. The news about Dominic… it’s a tragedy. We were just discussing how to protect you.”
Maya walked slowly toward the table. She didn't look at Roman. She looked at the chair he had just vacated—Dominic’s chair.
“You’re sitting in the wrong seat, Roman,” she said, her voice quiet but carrying an eerie weight that caused the ambient noise in the room to die.
Aldo gave a dry, mocking chuckle. “Maya, child, this is no place for a woman’s hysterics. The family needs leadership. Dominic is gone. You need to sit down and let the men handle the business.”
Maya finally looked at Aldo. She spoke in rapid, archaic Sicilian—the exact dialect he had used three weeks ago to insult her.
“An old dog who forgets his master’s voice is only good for the furnace, Aldo,” she said, her tone conversational.
Aldo’s face drained of color. He slammed his hands onto the table, his chair screeching backward. “You… you understand?”
“I understood every word,” Maya continued in the same fluid, lethal tongue, her gaze moving across the table to Carlo Neri. “I understood when Carlo said a man with a soft place gives his enemies somewhere to put the knife. I understood when you planned to replace my husband before his blood was even cold.”
Carlo reached for the weapon beneath his arm, his instincts screaming that the harmless portrait had just come to life.
Before his fingers could touch leather, the glass window behind him shattered. A single, high-caliber sniper round tore through Carlo’s shoulder, pinning him to the walnut table in a spray of blood and splintered wood. He screamed, his body collapsing over the polished surface.
May you like
Maya didn't even flinch at the sound. She simply opened her silver clutch, pulling out a small, black electronic jammer and placing it on the table.
“The perimeter guards you brought, Roman? They belong to my network now,” she said in calm, flawless English. “Nobody leaves this room. Nobody enters. Now, let’s discuss the ledger.”
