Chapter 7 - The Poisoned Breakfast
The grand dining hall of the Lake Forest manor was lined with oil paintings of dead Duca patriarchs.
A mahogany banquet table stretching forty feet was laid with fine bone china, silver cutlery, and crystal carafes of iced orange juice.
Twelve men sat along the perimeter, representing the five controlling syndicates of the Great Lakes territory.
At the center of the far side sat Salvatore Duca, radiating a smug, greasy confidence that set Elena’s teeth on edge.
Beside him sat a man in a crisp navy-blue tailored suit with a high-and-tight military haircut and an empty, reptilian stare.
Elena recognized him immediately from the classified defense briefings: Colonel Vance Sterling, head of black operations for Ironstone Global.
Carmine sat at the head of the table, his demeanor cold, imperial, and utterly unshakable.
Elena stood precisely three paces behind his right shoulder, her hands clasped behind her spine in an iron parade rest.
Her sharp eyes mapped the room: four private security contractors from Ironstone stood against the velvet drapes, their suit jackets bulging unnaturally under the left arm.
"Carmine, you look tired," Salvatore opened, buttering a slice of warm toast with theatrical leisure.
"Running the entire northern corridor must be exhausting for a bachelor with no heirs."
"I sleep very well, Salvatore," Carmine replied, not touching the porcelain coffee cup in front of him.
"Especially knowing that every dock worker in Cook County still answers to my name, not yours."
A low chuckle rumbled from Vance Sterling, who adjusted his silver watch with deliberate slowness.
"Control is an illusion of the twentieth century, Mr. Duca," Sterling spoke, his voice clipped and devoid of accent.
"The modern world runs on private logistics and defense infrastructure."
"Your family has held the southern canal for eighty years, but your methods are quaint, messy, and prone to federal scrutiny."
"Ironstone can modernize your route within thirty days, guaranteeing your syndicate a forty percent margin increase without the bloodshed."
Carmine leaned back, steepling his long fingers together over his plate.
"And what will you be hauling in those modernized containers, Colonel Sterling?" Carmine asked, his voice dripping with icy contempt.
"Stolen surplus ordnance from Fort McCoy?"
"Or the blood of American soldiers you left behind in the Diyala province?"
Sterling’s cold smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a flash of raw, lethal hostility.
His eyes flicked away from Carmine and locked onto Elena for the first time.
He stared at her cheekbone, tracing the faint, two-inch combat scar beneath her right ear.
"Sergeant Vance," Sterling whispered, his voice tightening like a wet rope.
"I was told you were rotting in an unmarked grave outside Mosul."
"Your contractors were sloppy, Sterling," Elena spoke aloud, violating the protocol of silence with deliberate insolence.
"They left six bodies behind in the sand, and they forgot to check my pulse before they set fire to the Humvee."
The dining hall went deathly silent as the council members froze with their silver forks suspended in mid-air.
Salvatore slammed his fist down onto the mahogany table, rattling the crystal glasses.
"What is this nonsense?" Salvatore snarled, glaring at Carmine.
"You bring an insubordinate, broken veteran into the council chambers to insult our guests?"
"She is not here to insult anyone, Uncle," Carmine replied smoothly, picking up a silver spoon and tapping the edge of his water goblet.
The sharp chime rang out like a church bell across the quiet room.
"She is here to bear witness to your execution for high treason against the Duca family."
Salvatore jumped to his feet, knocking his high-backed velvet chair backward onto the hardwood floor.
"You arrogant little bastard!" Salvatore bellowed, raising his hand toward the heavy velvet curtains.
"Take him down!"
The four Ironstone contractors reached into their jackets to draw their concealed submachine guns.
They were fast, but Elena Vance was a ghost forged in the furnace of black-ops survival.
Before Sterling’s lead contractor could clear his weapon from his shoulder holster, Elena hurled the heavy silver coffee pot across the table.
The scalding liquid and solid sterling silver slammed directly into the shooter’s face, shattering his nose and blinding him with boiling brew.
In the same fluid motion, Elena drew her Glock 19, dropped into a low crouch behind Carmine’s chair, and fired two precise rounds into the chest of the second contractor.
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The heavy gunfire detonated inside the dining hall like thunderclaps, shattering the antique chandelier overhead.
Crystal shards rained down across the mahogany table as the syndicates' bosses dove under the furniture in blind terror.
