Chapter 6 - The Judas at the Bathhouse
The Metropolitan Athletic Club in Tribeca was an exclusive fortress reserved for Manhattan’s financial aristocracy.
Behind its heavy limestone facade lay private racquetball courts, eucalyptus steam rooms, and dining lounges where city contracts were decided over twenty-year-old scotch.
A brass plaque near the brass-trimmed turnstile reminded members that privacy was the club’s sacred foundation.
That sacred foundation meant nothing to me.
At ten forty-five in the morning, Marco and I walked past the mahogany reception counter without breaking our stride.
The young clerk in the pressed blazer took one look at Marco’s scarred cheek and the cold set of my jaw, and immediately swallowed whatever polite objection had formed on his tongue.
We moved through the arched marble corridor leading down into the subterranean spa.
The air grew warm, humid, and heavy with the scent of cedar shavings and peppermint oil.
White steam drifted across the polished slate tiles like morning river mist.
In the center of the thermal suite sat a Roman plunge pool beneath a vaulted tile ceiling.
Lounging on an imported teak deckchair wrapped in a thick white terrycloth robe was Marcus Vance.
Marcus was thirty-eight years old, with slicked-back blonde hair, athletic shoulders, and the smug confidence of a man who had never faced a physical consequence in his entire privileged life.
He had been raised in the same country clubs as my younger sister.
My father had paid his tuition through Harvard Business School and placed thirty percent of our commercial holdings under his fiduciary signature.
I stood at the edge of the pool, watching him take a slow sip from a glass of sparkling water.
“The forehand volley is all in the wrist, Vance,” I said, my voice echoing off the damp mosaic tiles.
Marcus froze.
The crystal glass in his hand trembled, sending tiny ripples across the water’s surface.
He turned his head slowly, squinting through the thick steam until he recognized the tailored silhouette of my wool overcoat.
“Dominic?” Marcus stammered, forcing a hollow, nervous chuckle that died instantly in his throat.
“What are you doing down here?”
“I thought you were at the corporate headquarters preparing for the quarterly shareholder audit.”
Marco stepped around the edge of the plunge pool and quietly turned the heavy brass wheel that locked the double doors from the inside.
The deadbolt slid into the limestone frame with a heavy, final clunk.
Marcus sat up straight, his relaxed posture evaporating into rigid alarm.
“Dominic, what is this?” he asked, pulling the robe tighter across his chest.
“You can’t lock the doors.”
“The club manager will call the authorities.”
“The club manager is currently locked in his office with four of my men, Marcus,” I said calmly, stepping forward until my shoe tips touched his teak chair.
“Nobody is coming down these stairs.”
“Nobody is going to interrupt our conversation.”
I reached inside my coat pocket, withdrew the silver encrypted tablet Marco had given me, and tossed it into Marcus’s lap.
The screen illuminated the damp darkness of the steam room, displaying the access log from five o'clock yesterday evening.
Marcus stared down at the glowing text, his breathing suddenly accelerating into ragged gasps.
“You accessed the private domestic personnel database from the executive terminal,” I stated, keeping my tone flat and clinical.
“You pulled the home address, the subway route, and the shift schedule of a young woman named Emma Carter.”
Marcus shook his head frantically, his face draining of all color until it matched the white terrycloth of his robe.
“Dominic, listen to me, that was an administrative mistake!” he cried, raising both hands defensively.
“I was reviewing household overhead!”
“I was auditing the security expenditures for the mansion to make sure we weren't overspending on domestic staff!”
“Do not lie to me in this room, Marcus,” I said, leaning down until my eyes bore into his sweating forehead.
“A courier delivered that exact personnel file to Valentin Drake’s garage in Queens three hours later.”
“The envelope was sealed with the gold crest only you and three other men possess.”
“Valentin used that file to hunt an innocent girl through the rain.”
“They cracked her skull open on the sidewalk.”
“They ruptured her liver.”
“And while she was choking on her own blood, they told her that Dominic Castellano needed to learn who owns New York.”
Marcus shrank back into the cushions, his hands trembling so violently he could no longer hold his glass.
The crystal dropped from his fingers, shattering into sharp diamonds against the wet slate.
“You don't understand the pressure I was under!” Marcus screamed, his polished composure dissolving into hysterical terror.
“Kolov has people everywhere, Dominic!”
“He bought up my gambling debts from the casino in Atlantic City!”
“Twelve million dollars!”
“He told me if I didn't give him an opening against you, he would send photos of my offshore accounts to the Securities and Exchange Commission!”
“I would have spent twenty years in federal prison!”
“So you sold out a twenty-four-year-old girl who earns minimum wage cleaning your filth?” I asked softly.
“You traded Emma Carter’s life to protect your summer house in the Hamptons?”
“She was just a maid!” Marcus sobbed, tears cutting through the sweat on his cheeks.
“Kolov said he was only going to scare her!”
“He said he just wanted to send a message so you would sit down at the negotiating table!”
“He promised me nobody would get seriously hurt!”
Marco took a step forward, his knuckles white around his steel baton, but I held up a single gloved finger to hold him back.
“You think my power comes from the money in the banks, Marcus?” I asked, staring into his hollow, cowardly eyes.
“You think the Castellano crest stands for stock options and real estate trusts?”
“My father built this empire on a single unshakeable rule: the strong exist to shield the weak.”
“When someone puts on our uniform, they place their life in our hands.”
“And when an executive sells out a housekeeper to cover his own degenerate vices, that executive ceases to be family.”
“He becomes a tumor.”
Marcus threw himself off the chair onto his knees, crawling across the wet tiles to grab at the hem of my trousers.
“Dominic, please!” he wept, pressing his forehead against my leather shoes.
“I have known you since we were eight years old!”
“Your father was my godfather!”
“Think of the scandal if you destroy me!”
“The stock price will plummet forty percent!”
I kicked his hands away from my feet with effortless contempt.
“The stock price means nothing to a dead man, Marcus.”
“Now, you are going to tell me what Kolov planned for tonight, or Marco will hold your head beneath the water in that plunge pool until your lungs give out.”
Marcus looked up at Marco’s emotionless face and broke completely.
“The docks!” Marcus blubbered, saliva dripping from his trembling lips.
“Kolov is moving three cargo containers through Terminal Nine at Red Hook tonight at midnight!”
“Contraband weapons and forged federal bonds!”
“He paid off the customs inspector, and he hired an assault team to wipe out your night watchmen so he can take permanent control of the terminal!”
“He is going to frame your shipping line for the illegal arms shipment and have the federal marshals seize your entire fleet by sunrise!”
I stood straight and looked at Marco.
“Strip him of his phone, his keys, and his wallet.”
“Take him to the safe house in Jersey City and lock him in the basement.”
“If he speaks a single word, break his jaw.”
“Yes, Boss,” Marco said, grabbing Marcus by the collar of his robe and hauling him to his feet like an empty sack.
Marcus was still screaming and pleading as Marco dragged him toward the rear service exit.
I walked out of the steam room into the cold morning air of Tribeca, pulling my overcoat tightly around my chest.
The rot had been excised from my boardroom.
May you like
Now, the battle for Red Hook was only fourteen hours away.
And Viktor Kolov had no idea that his brilliant ambush was about to become his execution ground.
