Chapter 6 - The Council of Atlantic Shippers
At midnight, the grand council hall of the Vance coastal estate was illuminated by the flickering glare of two roaring limestone fireplaces.
Around the thirty-foot mahogany conference table sat forty-two syndicate capos, deep-water dockmasters, and federal port commissioners who had been recalled to the mansion under emergency armed escort.
Every man sat in rigid, petrified silence, their hands resting flat against the polished wood.
At the head of the raised dais sat Don Julian Vance.
He had removed his tuxedo jacket, wearing an unbuttoned black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his corded forearms, his presence commanding such terrifying, undisputed gravity that no man dared to draw a full breath.
And sitting in the high-backed carved mahogany armchair directly to his right—the place setting that had been reserved for the sovereign Donna of the Eastern Seaboard—was me.
I wore an exquisite, tailored gown of deep navy silk that had belonged to my late mother, its neckline pinned with an antique platinum cross, my dark hair swept up in an elegant chignon, the brass compass resting proudly beside my crystal water goblet.
Beside my chair sat little Lily, holding my hand, her face glowing with pure, unyielding security.
The heavy double oak doors of the council hall swung open with a concussive boom that rattled the chandeliers overhead.
Two armed tactical operators dragged Charles Montgomery—Victoria’s seventy-year-old father—and Victoria into the center of the floor.
Charles Montgomery, an international shipping baron worth three billion dollars, was shivering in his wrinkled linen suit, his patrician face pale as wet chalk, his hands secured in heavy steel transport cuffs.
Victoria was weeping uncontrollably, her oyster-white silk gown torn at the hem, her eighty-carat emerald choker stripped away and sitting in an evidence bag on the table.
Julian did not shout.
He picked up a silver dessert spoon from his place setting, tapping the rim of his crystal goblet.
Chime.
The clear, ringing tone cut through the hall like an executioner's bell.
The forty-two capos fell dead silent.
Julian turned his slate-gray eyes directly onto Charles Montgomery.
“Charles,” Julian said softly, his voice quiet enough that every soul in the room leaned forward to hear.
“Julian... please,” Montgomery wheezed, his voice cracking into desperate, groveling panic. “This is an internal business dispute! We can settle the maritime leases through our London holding banks! Name your price!”
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“My price, Charles,” Julian whispered, each syllable dropping like an iron anvil onto stone, “is twenty-eight years of my mother's life.”
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