THE MAFIA'S DIAMOND PHANTOM / Chapter 5 / 15

Chapter 5 - The Courier in the Ink-Stained SmockAt 11:45 AM, the grand council ballroom of Vance Tower was an airless tomb.

Seventy-five syndicate capos, diamond exchange brokers, port authority directors, and private equity executives sat around the forty-foot u-shaped mahogany table beneath three massive crystal chandeliers.

At the head of the raised marble dais sat Damon Vance.

He had changed into an eight-thousand-dollar charcoal pinstripe suit, his swollen neck concealed beneath a high silk collar, a fresh pair of gold-rimmed glasses resting on his nose, holding an antique gold fountain pen over an executive succession charter.

Beside him sat Victoria Sterling—the daughter of the transatlantic steel cartel that controlled the deep-water drydocks of Brooklyn—wearing eighty carats of uncut raw diamonds around her throat, smiling with the cold, predatory triumph of an heiress whose marriage to the new sovereign was twenty minutes away from being signed.

"Gentlemen," Damon announced, his voice smooth, cultured, and echoing with practiced grief through the high vaulted hall. "It is with an agonizing heart that I must report the passing of my beloved elder brother, Don Gabriel. The long-term pulmonary trauma from his 2019 spinal injury finally claimed him this morning."

A collective, solemn murmur rustled down the table.

Victoria reached over, placing a delicate, manicured hand over Damon’s knuckles.

"In accordance with the internal charter of the Vance Diamond Syndicate," Damon continued, raising the gold pen, "the entirety of the northern gemstone corridors, the deep-water port leases, and the private processing vaults are transferred to my executive leadership."

The heavy double doors of the ballroom blew inward with a concussive, deafening crash.

Not with a polite latch turn.

The three-hundred-pound reinforced mahogany doors were blown off their hydraulic hinges by an emergency breach charge, splintering into jagged slabs of timber that flew across the entryway carpet.

The string quartet died on a shattered note.

Seventy-five mob bosses scrambled to their feet, their chairs screeching against the floorboards, their hands diving beneath their bespoke jackets.

Out of the rising smoke and cordite mist walked a giant.

I stepped through the shattered threshold.

I wore an immaculate bespoke black three-piece tuxedo, my shoulders broad enough to block out the corridor light, my stride long, steady, and terrifyingly unhurried, my dark gray eyes burning with the lethal, unyielding sovereignty of an apex predator returning to his kill.

Walking at my right side, holding a leather folio case stamped with the golden seal of the State of New York, was Dr. Elena Aris, radiant in a tailored navy silk suit.

And walking at my left hand, dressed in clean rigger's denim, carrying the silver jeweler's tuning hammer in his right hand, was fourteen-year-old Leo.

The entire ballroom turned to stone.

Glasses slipped from frozen fingers, shattering against the damask tablecloths.

Damon Vance’s gold fountain pen slipped from his hand, rolling across the succession charter, leaving a smear of black ink across his signature line.

All the color drained from Damon’s face until he looked like a wax mannequin that had begun to melt under the chandeliers.

"G-Gabriel...?" Damon gasped, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pathetic wheeze.

Victoria Sterling backed away from the dais, her manicured fingers clawing at the raw diamonds at her throat, her lips parting into an empty, silent scream.

I walked down the grand center aisle, my leather boots striking the carpet with the cadence of an execution march.

I didn't draw a weapon.

I didn't raise my voice.

I stopped three paces from the head of the dais, looking down at my younger brother.