Chapter 6 - The Council of the Southern BasinsAt 11:30 PM, the grand council hall in the subterranean fortress beneath the cliffs of Villefranche was locked down under Level Four syndicate martial law.
The massive iron blast doors were sealed with six-inch hydraulic bolts. Sixty of the most powerful maritime capos, naval commanders, and deep-water harbor masters from Marseille, Genoa, Naples, and Athens sat along the sixty-foot mahogany conference table beneath ancient oil paintings of Mediterranean sea battles.
At the head of the raised marble dais sat Admiral Christian Vance.
He wore an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, his presence radiating such terrifying, undisputed gravity that no man dared to draw a full breath.
Sitting in the high-backed velvet armchair directly to his right was Donna Isabella, draped in an imperial gown of dark navy velvet, her titanium key resting on the table before her.
And sitting beside Christian, dressed in a custom gown of deep emerald silk that accentuated her graceful beauty, her dark hair swept up in an elegant chignon, was Teresa Cruz.
The heavy iron doors of the fortress swung open with a concussive boom.
Marcus and four armed commandos dragged Henri Laurent—sixty-five years old, the billionaire chairman of the Laurent Consortium—into the center of the room.
His tuxedo was torn at the collar, his face bruised and pale as wet paper, his wrists bound in heavy steel transport cuffs.
Christian did not raise his voice.
He tapped the table.
Teresa stepped forward, placing the military data chip into the central console.
The sixty-inch display above the stone fireplace flickered to life, projecting the unredacted maritime manifests from 2018 alongside the decrypted wire transfers from Zurich:
OPERATION BASTIA — TARGET: VESSEL CALYPSO (DONNA ISABELLA VANCE).
CONSIDERATION: 40,000,000 CHF.
PAYEE: PRIVATE DEFENSE LOGISTICS (HENRI LAURENT).
Henri Laurent looked up at the glowing screen, and all the blood drained from his face until he looked like an unburied corpse.
“Christian... please!” Laurent wept, collapsing onto his knees on the stone floor, his voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic shriek. “The naval ministry demanded access to the deep-water channels! Your grandmother refused to negotiate! I was forced to act to protect the European supply lines!”
Don Carmine Falcone’s oldest nephew, Vittorio Falcone—the legendary seventy-year-old capo of the Genoese docks who sat as an independent mediator—slowly pushed his heavy chair back from the table.
The ancient mobster stood tall, leaning on his carved ash walking stick, looking down at Laurent with pitiless, ancient disgust.
“You don't protect supply lines by putting a mine on a Donna’s hull, Henri,” Falcone rasped, his gravelly voice vibrating off the vaulted ceiling. “You brought treason into our water. You desecrated our sacred covenants.”
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The old underboss turned toward Christian and Donna Isabella, bowing his silver head with profound, sovereign respect.
“The Commission recognizes the blood debt, Don Christian. The house of Laurent is extinguished. Every berth, every warehouse, and every patrol vessel operating under their flag belongs to the Vance throne.”
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