Chapter 5 - The Snake at the Table
The following evening, the dining room of my Greenwich mansion was set once again.
This time, there was no little girl sitting in a teal dress with dark curls. Amara and her mother were safely tucked away in the east wing, guarded by my most trusted men.
At the long mahogany table, two places were set.
At the head of the table sat I, dressed in a sharp, charcoal-grey three-piece suit, my posture rigid, my eyes fixed on the double doors.
At the opposite end sat Victor Vance.
Victor looked every bit the polished, immaculate corporate executive and criminal mastermind. He wore a custom Brioni suit, his silver-streaked hair neatly combed, a warm, reassuring smile gracing his face as he took a sip of vintage Bordeaux.
“It’s good to be back in New York, Julian,” Victor said, swirling the wine in his glass. He looked entirely at ease, completely unaware that the safety deposit box downtown had been emptied and his secrets laid bare across my desk. “Europe is a mess right now. The syndicate expansion in Frankfurt is taking longer than expected, but the margins are looking promising.”
“Is that so, Victor?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. I hadn't touched my wine.
Victor paused, glancing up from his glass. A subtle micro-expression of confusion flickered across his eyes before he masked it with his usual smooth demeanor. “You sound distracted, my friend. Is something wrong? Is it still about… you know. The anniversary?”
I didn't answer right away. I slowly pushed my plate aside, rested my forearms on the polished wood, and leaned forward.
“Victor, let me ask you a question,” I said softly. “If someone you trusted—someone you considered a brother—stabbed you in the back, what would you do to them?”
Victor let out a light, dismissive chuckle, setting his wine glass down with a soft clink. “Well, in our line of work, betrayal is the highest sin. You don't just kill a traitor, Julian. You strip them of everything they built, you isolate them from their allies, and then you make them watch their world burn down to the ash before you put a bullet between their eyes.”
“I’m glad we agree on the protocol,” I replied.
I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket, pulled out the manila folder containing the Cyprus wire transfers, and slid it across the long mahogany table. It glided smoothly over the polished wood until it stopped right in front of Victor’s place setting.
Victor stared at the folder.
He didn't touch it. But the color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse under the crystal chandelier. The smooth, confident executive facade cracked down the middle, revealing the panicking rat hiding underneath.
“Julian… what is this?” Victor asked, his voice pitching slightly upward.
“Open it, Victor,” I commanded.
Victor’s trembling fingers reached out. He flipped open the folder. His eyes scanned the wire transfer receipts, the offshore routing numbers bearing his corporate seal, and the date stamp matching the exact week my daughter was murdered.
“You sold my family to the Chicago syndicate for twelve million dollars,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it echoed through the massive room like thunder. “You traded the life of a four-year-old girl so you could buy your way into the European shipping routes.”
Victor slammed the folder shut, standing up so violently his chair tipped backward and crashed against the marble floor.
“It’s a forgery!” Victor shrieked, his voice cracking, all pretense of composure evaporating into pure terror. “Rival gangs forged those documents to turn us against each other! You can’t believe this trash, Julian—we’ve been brothers for fifteen years!”
Before Victor could reach into his jacket for his concealed sidearm, the double doors of the dining room flew open.
Four armed guards rushed in, tackling Victor to the floor with bone-crushing force, pinning his face against the cold marble tiles.
Victor screamed curses, thrashing beneath the boots of my men, but it was useless.
May you like
I stood up slowly from my chair, buttoning my jacket, and walked around the table until I stood over him. I looked down at the man who had held my daughter in his arms and smiled at her birthday parties while secretly planning her execution.
“Take him down to the basement armory,” I ordered quietly. “Don't kill him yet. I want him alive when I figure out who else in this city helped him pull the trigger.”
