Chapter 8 - The Interrogation in the PenthouseThe air in the executive boardroom grew so cold that Vivienne could see her own shallow, panicked breath.
Arthur Vance sat slumped in his chair, his hands bound with plastic zip-ties, his bespoke tuxedo wrinkled and soaked with cold sweat.
"Matteo... please," Arthur rasped, his voice trembling with the pathetic, broken desperation of a ruined patriarch. "The Coast Guard seizure was an administrative error! We can negotiate with the federal prosecutors! I have sixty million dollars in Swiss bearer bonds—I will transfer every cent to your offshore holding company!"
Matteo stood up slowly from the head of the table.
He walked down the length of the mahogany wood, his leather soles silent against the floor.
He stopped two feet in front of Arthur Vance.
He didn't draw his weapon. He didn't raise his fist.
He reached into his pocket and tossed a thick manila folder onto Arthur's lap.
"The Swiss bearer bonds were frozen three hours ago by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Arthur," Matteo said, each word falling like lead into the room. "Along with your private airstrip in Gary, your container terminals in Calumet Harbor, and your family's pharmaceutical patents."
He turned his gaze onto Vivienne.
Vivienne looked up, her makeup smeared across her cheeks, weeping in blind, suffocating terror.
"Matteo... I was just angry about my dress! I swear to God, I didn't know about the port seizure! My father kept me out of the logistics business!"
"You didn't know about the seizure, Vivienne?" Matteo murmured, his eyes turning to black ice. "Then why did you order your private driver to stage your extraction luggage at the south gate thirty minutes before the decanter was broken?"
Vivienne froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
Silvano stepped forward, tossing an open crocodile-skin travel case onto the conference table.
Inside lay three Panamanian diplomatic passports, two million dollars in uncirculated European currency, and an encrypted satellite phone registered to the Detroit cartel.
"You weren't marrying me to unite two families, Vivienne," Matteo whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. "You and your father were planning to slip out of this city at midnight while your Detroit partners detonated two container bombs at my rail yard to cover your theft."
The forty syndicate capos around the table erupted into a low, murderous roar.
Don Salvatore Falcone, the oldest and most respected underboss in Chicago, slammed his heavy fist onto the wood.
"Treason!" Falcone bellowed, his weathered face twisted in ancient disgust. "They brought Detroit poison into our city! They tried to burn the rail lines that feed our families!"
Matteo raised a single hand.
The room fell into instant, breathless silence.
He looked down at Arthur and Vivienne Vance with cold, absolute detachment.
"You will sign the transfer deeds for the Calumet container terminal tonight, Arthur," Matteo said smoothly. "Every warehouse, every transport permit, and every vessel operating under the Vance name is officially absorbed into the Rossi Maritime Trust."
He looked at Silvano.
"Take them to the federal building on Dearborn Street. Hand them over to Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance—their own second cousin—with the unredacted customs ledgers. Their trials begin on Monday."
Vivienne screamed, thrashing against the guards as they hauled her out of the chair, dragging her backward across the floorboards while her designer heels skidded uselessly against the wood.
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"Matteo! No! You can't do this to me! I am an aristocrat! I was supposed to be the Donna of this city!"
Her cries echoed down the long gallery until the heavy iron fire doors slammed shut, cutting off her voice forever.
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