Chapter 4 - The Traitor’s Table
The penthouse conference room at the St. Regis Hotel sat high above Fifth Avenue, enclosed in bulletproof glass and guarded by thirty armed men.
Inside sat the seven Capos of the Whitmore Crime Family—the oldest, wealthiest, and most ruthless men on the East Coast. At the head of the polished mahogany table sat Julian Vance, weeping softly into a linen handkerchief, while Colin Ward stood behind him with a glass of scotch in his hand.
“It’s a tragedy,” Colin was telling the Capos, his voice filled with theatrical solemnity. “Adrian lost his mind tonight at the chapel. He accused his own guards, took the maid and her child at gunpoint, and fled into the night. He’s unfit to lead the family. His grief has broken him.”
Julian wiped his eyes, stepping forward. “My sister Eleanor would be heartbroken to see Adrian like this. As her brother, and as the head of the Vance assets, I move that we stripped Adrian Whitmore of his executive command tonight and appoint Colin Ward as acting Boss.”
Old Capo Vane, a grey-haired veteran who had served Adrian’s father for forty years, slammed his heavy fist onto the table.
“Adrian buried his wife and child!” Vane growled. “You don't strip a man of his birthright while he mourns!”
“He didn't bury his child,” Colin lied smoothly. “The maid stole a dead baby from the morgue eight months ago to extort Adrian. Adrian is delusional, Vane. He thinks his daughter is still alive.”
CLICK.
The heavy double doors of the penthouse didn't burst open. They swung open slowly, smoothly, as if moved by an invisible hand.
The six guards standing in the hallway outside didn't move. They lay sprawled on the marble floor, unconscious.
Adrian Whitmore walked into the room alone.
He wore a custom black suit, his dark hair combed back, his hand resting casually in his coat pocket. He didn't look broken. He didn't look delusional. He looked like the Angel of Death coming to collect an old debt.
The seven Capos stood up in shock.
“Adrian!” Capo Vane gasped.
Colin’s scotch glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. Julian backed away toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, his face turning paper-white.
“You said he fled the state!” Julian hissed at Colin.
“Sit down,” Adrian commanded softly.
Not a single Capo dared to move.
Adrian walked slowly down the length of the long mahogany table, taking his seat at the very head—the throne of the Whitmore empire. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wood, looking directly into Colin’s terrified eyes.
“You told the table I was delusional, Colin,” Adrian said softly. “You told them my daughter died eight months ago.”
Adrian pulled a secure satellite phone from his pocket and pressed play.
A high-definition video feed appeared on the giant projection screen at the end of the room.
It showed little Clara sitting in a sunlit nursery in Vermont, playing with a silver rattle, Grace sitting beside her smiling, and little Lucy drawing pictures at a small wooden desk.
On Clara’s small hand, clearly visible under the camera lens, was the distinct crescent-shaped birthmark of the Whitmore bloodline.
The room went deathly silent.
Old Capo Vane gasped, tears filling his weathered eyes. “By God... the child is alive. William’s granddaughter is alive!”
Colin reached frantically for his sidearm.
Before his hand could clear his holster, Adrian pulled his weapon and fired a single shot.
BANG.
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The bullet shattered Colin’s right kneecap. Colin collapsed to the floor, screaming in agony, clutching his bloodied leg as the Capos scattered.
“Nobody leaves this room,” Adrian said, his gun still smoking as he aimed it at Julian Vance’s forehead. “Because we’re about to listen to a few phone calls Eleanor recorded before you murdered her.”
