Chapter 5 - The Burmese Stone in the Salt Air
Matteo handed the ruby back to Maeve.
His fingers brushed against hers, warm and solid against the cool stone, an unspoken anchor of absolute protection passing between them.
He looked toward the tactical commander standing by the salon doors.
“Marco.”
“Yes, Don Matteo.”
“Secure the fifty guests in the main dining salon. Confiscate all phones, digital drives, and satellite radios. Nobody makes a telephone call until the United States Attorney arrives with the maritime seizure warrants.”
“Understood, boss.”
The fifty billionaires scrambled toward the salon doors like obedient cattle, tripping over their gowns and tuxedos, desperate to escape the line of fire.
Only Julian Sterling and Camille Vance remained on the aft deck, pinned beneath the cold muzzle of tactical rifles.
Matteo walked over to the edge of the teak lounge, picking up the fallen diamond stylus.
He tested the balance of the steel in his palm.
He looked at Julian.
“Julian.”
“Yes... yes, Don Matteo?” Julian wept, his knees shaking so violently he had to lean against the rail.
“Your hedge fund manages sixty million dollars in maritime freight bonds,” Matteo said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
“Yes, sir! Every dollar is insured through Lloyd's—”
“Not anymore,” Matteo interrupted. “My comptrollers called your credit lines forty minutes ago while we were clearing Government Cut. Your commercial accounts in Delaware are frozen. Your partners in London have already executed the default clauses.”
Julian gasped, clutching his head, a choking sob tearing from his chest.
“You ruined me... over a gem polisher?”
Matteo stepped forward, his eyes turning into bottomless pits of pure obsidian.
“Over my wife,” Matteo whispered. “Over the woman who built the empire you tried to scavenge.”
He turned to Captain Hendrick.
“Bring me a chair for Donna Maeve.”
“Right away, sir! Immediately!”
The captain sprinted into the bridge, returning three seconds later carrying a high-backed executive armchair of dark blue leather and polished mahogany. He placed it carefully at the center of the aft deck, facing the kneeling heiress.
Matteo extended his hand to Maeve.
He guided her to the chair with the reverence of a knight escorting a queen to her throne.
Maeve sat down gracefully, pulling the black cashmere tuxedo jacket smoothly over her lap, resting her hands on the leather armrests. In her right palm, the raw Burmese ruby glowed like a drop of fresh arterial blood beneath the spotlights.
She looked down at Camille Vance.
May you like
“You wanted to see someone who matters, Camille,” Maeve said softly. “Look up.”
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