Chapter 4 - The Offshore Ledgers of Henri DupontBy 11:15 PM, the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate was an airless tomb.
Forty syndicate commanders, deep-water port commissioners, and city judges sat along the forty-foot mahogany table beneath three tiers of Austrian crystal chandeliers.
At the head of the guest seating sat Henri Dupont—sixty-five years old, tailored in an eight-thousand-dollar French wool dinner jacket, his silver hair groomed to razor perfection, nursing a snifter of vintage armagnac with the arrogant confidence of a man who believed he was about to absorb half of Illinois.
The heavy double doors of the ballroom slammed open with a concussive boom that rattled the crystal pendants overhead.
I walked down the grand center aisle.
I had removed my tuxedo jacket, wearing an unbuttoned black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled over my corded, scarred forearms, my presence radiating such absolute, terrifying authority that all forty syndicate captains rose to their feet in unison.
Walking at my right hand, dressed in an elegant gown of dark navy silk that had belonged to my late sister, her dark hair swept up in a clean chignon, was Clara.
She carried the canvas duffel bag smelling of stone dust in her arms, walking with steady, unyielding dignity down the red carpet.
Henri Dupont’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
The aristocratic smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, curdled unease.
I stopped two feet from his chair.
Marco stepped up beside me, seizing the green duffel bag and dumping its contents directly onto the white damask tablecloth before Dupont’s plate.
CLATTER.
The sledgehammer, the dust-covered chisels, and the four silver chalices hit the porcelain with violent, ringing force, overturning Dupont’s snifter, splashing amber liquor across the linen.
“What is the meaning of this barbarism, Dante?” Henri Dupont demanded, his voice rising in strained, brittle indignation. “We are gathered to celebrate an alliance between our houses!”
I reached into my pocket, withdrew the gold-and-ebony rosary, and dropped it into Dupont’s empty plate.
Clink.
The gold crucifix sat heavy and dark against the white china, coated in white limestone dust.
“Do you recognize the dust on these beads, Henri?” I asked softly.
May you like
The entire banquet hall fell so silent that the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantel sounded like a hammer against stone.
“It is the pulverized marble of Saint Jude’s altar,” I whispered, each word falling like an iron spike into the table. “Smashed with your tools at three o'clock this afternoon.”
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