Chapter 6 - Blood on the Parquet FloorTwelve agonizing minutes passed in absolute silence.
None of the thirty-four syndicate bosses dared to move. The wine in their glasses grew warm; the expensive dessert plates sat melting under the heat of the chandelier bulbs.
Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the reception hall swung open with a resounding bang.
Daniel walked into the room. In his large, leather-gloved hands, he carried a heavy, olive-drab waterproof military Pelican case, covered in decades-old dust and damp subterranean soil.
He marched straight down the aisle and set the heavy case onto the head table, right in front of Arthur Vance.
“Found it behind the wainscoting, boss,” Daniel reported. “The seal was intact. Nobody has touched this since Donna Isabella locked it four years ago.”
Matteo pulled a slender steel pick from his pocket, flipped open the heavy latches, and opened the lid.
Inside lay three thick, black hardbound ledgers filled with Isabella’s meticulous accounting, alongside four encrypted USB thumb drives and a sworn affidavit notarized by a federal judge who had retired to Florida five years ago.
Matteo picked up the top ledger, opening it to a page flagged with a yellow ribbon.
“Manifest #4412,” Matteo read aloud, his voice booming through the vaulted room. “Two hundred kilos of synthetic precursor chemicals imported through the Port of Indiana, routed through Vance Logistics Terminal 4, billed as industrial solvents. Signed off by Arthur Vance. Kickback paid to the State Senator: five hundred thousand dollars.”
He turned the page.
“Manifest #4509. Weapons shipment from Eastern Europe, concealed in agricultural machinery. Billed to Rossi Distribution without my signature, using a forged facsimile of my father’s seal.”
Matteo looked up, his dark eyes burning with absolute, lethal certainty.
“You didn't just kill my wife, Arthur. You used my family’s name to shield your cartel from federal interception. And when Isabella caught you, you murdered her to save your own skin.”
Arthur Vance didn't speak. His face had hardened into stone.
With lightning speed, Arthur’s right hand whipped out from beneath the tablecloth. He had palmed a small, flat ceramic derringer from his boot buckle—a weapon designed to pass through metal detectors undetected.
He didn't aim at Matteo.
He aimed directly at me.
He knew that if he fired at Matteo, Daniel would drop him instantly. But chaos was his only exit. A hostage, a dead bystander, anything to create a stampede among the syndicate leaders.
“Down!” Matteo roared.
Before Arthur could pull the double-action trigger, Matteo moved with terrifying speed. He lunged across the corner of the table, his heavy forearm slamming down across Arthur’s wrist.
The gun fired with a muffled CRACK.
The ceramic bullet went wild, shattering an antique crystal wall sconce and raining sparkling glass shards down onto the parquet floor.
A woman shrieked. Two underbosses threw themselves under the mahogany table.
Matteo didn’t give Arthur a second chance. He gripped Arthur’s lapels, hauled the older man clean out of his chair, and slammed him face-first onto the polished banquet table, shattering plates, spilling wine, and sending silver forks flying in every direction.
Daniel had his gun pressed against Arthur’s temple before the man could draw another breath.
“Move,” Daniel growled, “and your brains become the centerpiece.”
Arthur groaned against the wood, blood trickling from his broken nose onto the white linen cloth.
Matteo stood over him, breathing evenly, his tuxedo unbuttoned, his cuffs immaculate despite the violence.
He turned toward Camilla, who had collapsed onto the floor beside the buffet, clutching her ears, sobbing in uncontrolled hysteria.
“Get up,” Matteo said to her.
She looked up at him, tears ruining her expensive mascara, leaving black tracks down her pale cheeks. “Matteo... please... don’t kill my father! I’ll do anything! I’ll sign whatever you want!”
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Matteo walked over to the buffet, picked up a clean linen napkin, and wiped a speck of dust from his sleeve.
“You’re not going to die tonight, Camilla,” Matteo said, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion. “Death is too clean. You’re going to watch everything your family built turn into ashes.”
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