Chapter 8 - The Ledger of the Deep
Julian reacted like a cornered rat.
He ripped his wrist away from her touch, his eyes darting toward the perimeter of the room. “Security! What are you doing?! Seize this woman! She’s an imposter! She’s a lunatic trying to extort the company!”
Four armed security guards in black tactical suits surged toward the stage, their hands reaching under their coats for suppressed firearms.
They didn't make it three yards.
Marco and six of Dante’s men stepped out from behind the limestone pillars. Silenced pistols were pressed firmly against the ribs of the Vance guards before they could clear leather.
“Take a nap,” Marco muttered, grabbing the lead guard by the collar and driving his knee into the man’s abdomen, dragging him quietly behind a stone statue of Anubis.
Dante stepped onto the stage. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't raise his voice. He reached inside his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a thick, leather-bound document with the gold foil seal of the United States Federal Maritime Commission.
He handed it to the museum’s head of security, who was standing nearby with the Port Authority commissioner.
“The original manifest from October 14th, seven years ago,” Dante announced to the stunned room. “Signed by Julian Vance. Showing the transfer of three million dollars to a private shell corporation registered to the two divers who severed the brake lines on Julianna Vance’s Mercedes.”
Julian lunged for the papers. Dante caught him by the throat.
With one hand, Dante lifted the fifty-year-old man until his polished oxfords were dangling three inches off the hardwood floor. Julian choked, his hands clawing uselessly at Dante’s iron fingers.
“You had seven years to bury your sins, Julian,” Dante whispered into his ear, so low only the two of them and Julianna could hear. “You should have stayed out of the water.”
Julianna reached forward. With slow, methodical precision, she unclasped Kenneth Vance’s gold Patek Philippe from her cousin’s wrist. She slipped it into her velvet pocket.
Then she looked up at the four hundred members of New York’s elite, who were watching in utter, petrified silence.
“Tomorrow morning at nine,” Julianna announced, her voice ringing out like a cathedral bell, “the board of Vance Global Logistics will convene at our downtown headquarters. Every contract signed in the last seven years is under review. The Vance family has returned. And the docks are closed to thieves.”
Dante dropped Julian to the floor. The man collapsed like a sack of wet salt, coughing and clutching his bruised throat.
May you like
“Call the FBI,” the Port Authority commissioner commanded, pointing at Julian on the floor. “Get this man in custody before he leaves the building.”
Flashbulbs exploded in a blinding wall of white light as Julianna turned her back on her cousin, took Dante’s arm once more, and walked down the center aisle, her head high, the velvet cape floating behind her like smoke.
