Chapter 7 - The Ghost of Lake MichiganThe silence inside the ballroom was so dense that the ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the foyer sounded like artillery fire.
Don Carmine Falcone adjusted his wire-rimmed reading glasses, his liver-spotted hands scanning the banking documents.
His weathered jaw tightened until the skin over his cheekbones turned pale with fury.
“Arthur,” Falcone rasped, his voice vibrating with an ancient, terrifying menace. “Is this the bloodline you brought to our table?”
Arthur Vance broke into a cold sweat, his patrician facade crumbling into frantic desperation.
“Falcone, listen to me! This is corporate forgery! This girl is a disgruntled junior auditor who stole classified financial projections from our private vault! Dante is manufacturing evidence to seize our banking charter!”
“Her name is Elena Cross,” Dante said, his voice flat as an open grave. “And her supervisor, Thomas Miller, was thrown off the Navy Pier breakwater at eleven o'clock last night because he refused to sign these transfers.”
Giselle leaped to her feet, her ivory silk suit rustling violently as she knocked over her water glass, vintage crystal shattering across the mahogany.
“She’s a liar!” Giselle shrieked, dropping all pretense of high-society etiquette. “Dante, don't listen to this street rat! She’s trying to destroy our alliance! She’s an extortionist!”
Dante didn't raise his voice. He took half a step forward, and the sheer, predatory malice radiating from his obsidian eyes made Giselle flinch backward until her hip struck the back of her chair.
“My private divers pulled Thomas Miller’s body from the harbor two hours ago, Giselle,” Dante whispered, each syllable sharp enough to shave skin. “And tucked inside his coat pocket was your private security access card, dropped when your men forced him over the railing.”
Giselle covered her mouth, a choked sob of pure terror escaping her throat.
Across the room, thirty-two syndicate leaders stood as one, their hands dropping beneath their jackets, drawing their sidearms and training them directly onto Arthur Vance and his personal security detail.
Arthur Vance dropped to his knees on the carpet, his hands raised in desperate supplication.
“Dante... please! It was business! The Montreal syndicate was threatening to freeze our northern liquidity! We needed the port reserves to stay solvent! We were going to repay the escrow accounts after the wedding!”
“You don't repay murder with a bank transfer, Arthur,” Dante replied coldly.
He turned to his chief enforcer, Marco, who stood at the entrance archway holding a digital tablet connected to the hotel’s security feed.
“Bring in the contractor from the train,” Dante commanded.
The heavy double doors opened once more.
Two of Dante’s armed guards dragged the lead mercenary from the midnight express into the room, his leg bandaged, his face bruised, his tactical vest stripped away.
The contractor looked at Arthur Vance, then at Giselle, and spoke clearly into the silent hall:
“Giselle Vance paid us one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash at the Drake lobby at ten o'clock last night. She told us to make sure Elena Cross never crossed the state line alive.”
Giselle collapsed onto the floor among the shards of broken crystal, weeping hysterically, clutching her knees against her chest.
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Dante looked down at her with absolute, unyielding disgust.
“Take off the ring, Giselle.”
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