Chapter 7 - The Father's Forged Terminal DeedA collective gasp ripped through the forty syndicate commanders seated along the mahogany table.
Above the fireplace, the high-definition presentation screen flared to life.
The reconstructed video footage—restored bit-by-bit from the platter Camilla had tried to degauss—played in agonizing, high-resolution clarity.
The timestamp was clear: OCTOBER 14, 02:14 AM.
The footage showed Julian Rossi’s small wooden runabout idling near the mouth of the Calumet River.
From the darkness of the industrial channel, the massive, razor-sharp steel bow of The Valkyrie surged into the frame at high speed, completely cutting Julian’s boat in two, pitching the twenty-four-year-old boy into the freezing water before an incendiary flare was fired from the yacht’s deck into the leaking fuel slick.
On the bridge of The Valkyrie, clearly visible through the glass under the harbor floodlights, was Don Arthur Vance.
The banquet hall went so cold that not a single man dared to breathe.
Arthur Vance’s face turned the color of wet cement.
His hand shook so violently that his coffee cup shattered against the floor, hot dark liquid splashing across his polished shoes.
“This... this is an AI fabrication!” Arthur shouted, his voice cracking into frantic, desperate panic. “A deepfake generated by my rivals to destabilize our corporate merger! Matteo, you cannot believe this digital forgery!”
Matteo didn't raise his voice.
He reached into his breast pocket and tossed the forged terminal deed onto the tablecloth in front of the older mobster.
“And this, Arthur?” Matteo asked, each word falling like an iron weight. “The deed transferring my Calumet container berths to your Panamanian holding company, stamped with my forged signature and dated for tomorrow morning?”
He turned his gaze onto Camilla.
Camilla had backed away toward the buffet sideboard, her hands clutching her ivory lace gown, her chest heaving as if she were suffocating.
“You told Maya that she caught her hand in an ice chest latch yesterday afternoon, Camilla,” Matteo whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal intensity.
Camilla began to sob, tears carving black tracks through her expensive foundation.
“Matteo... please! It was my father! He told me we were losing our shipping lines! He told me Julian had uncovered our offshore accounts in Montreal! I didn't want anyone killed!”
“You stood in my server room with a degaussing magnet,” Matteo said, his gray eyes turning to black voids of death. “And when a twenty-six-year-old girl walked into that room, you slammed an eight-hundred-pound reinforced vault door onto her knuckles to protect your father’s murder.”
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He looked at Marco.
“Bring in the strike team.”
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