Chapter 14 - The Feast of Jackals
The mahogany boardroom went dead silent the instant the double doors slammed against the drywall.
Twelve men sat around the thirty-foot Italian walnut table, crystal flutes of vintage Dom Pérignon in their hands.
At the head of the table sat Uncle Marco, his silk tie loosened, his cheeks flushed with expensive liquor.
Beside him sat three senior division heads who had sworn loyalty to my father on his deathbed.
Marco froze with his glass halfway to his mouth, his small, dark eyes blinking in disbelief.
"Elena?" Marco forced a jovial, paternal grin onto his face, setting the flute down on the polished wood.
"My dear child, what a surprise; we were under the impression you were resting at Lake Forest."
"Were you?" I asked, stepping into the room with measured, rhythmic footsteps.
Mateo and four armed security captains filed in behind me, fanning out along the perimeter wall like wolves.
The board members exchanged nervous, darting glances; several of them instinctively pulled their hands off the table.
"This is an executive session, Elena," Marco said, his tone shifting toward condescending reprimand.
"We are managing the crisis Enzo created; as a major shareholder, your dividend checks will continue, of course."
"You shouldn't speak about crises, Marco," I said, walking slowly toward the head of the table.
"You have such a delicate constitution for bad news."
"Watch your tone," Marco snapped, his authority slipping.
"I am the head of this family now; Antonio is gone, and you couldn't even keep your own household in order."
The silence in the room became so heavy you could hear the air conditioning vents humming in the ceiling.
I stopped directly behind Marco’s high-backed leather chair.
I opened my leather portfolio and dropped the Zurich forensic report directly onto his salad plate.
The heavy paper landed with a sharp slap against the china.
Marco glanced down, his eyes skimming the header, and the blood instantly drained from his heavy jowls.
"Do you recognize the chemical compound, Uncle?" I asked, leaning down until my lips were inches from his ear.
"It took seven weeks for the Swiss technicians to isolate the synthetic prostaglandin Enzo bought from your clinic."
Marco’s left hand began to tremble, hovering uselessly over his napkin.
"I... I don't know what garbage Enzo fed you," Marco stammered, looking around the table for support.
"This is a forgery; Enzo is a convicted felon trying to drag down the family name!"
I reached into my pocket, placed the micro-cassette player beside his champagne flute, and pressed the play button.
The voice of Uncle Marco filled the pristine boardroom:
*"The Romano bloodline ends with Elena; the board will have no choice but to name me interim chairman when she breaks."*
Every single man at that table had served my father.
They were ruthless men, cartel operators, corporate predators, but they operated under an ancient Sicilian code.
To murder a Romano child in the womb of an heir was an abomination punishable by burial in unmarked lime.
The senior division head, an old man named Luca who had known me since infancy, slowly stood up.
Luca didn't look at Marco.
He looked directly at me, his face carved from cold granite.
"Is this authentic, Donna Elena?" Luca asked, his voice shaking with pure, unadulterated fury.
"The original audio file is registered in Continental Trust's federal vault," I said clearly.
"Alongside bank transfers showing three million dollars moving from Marco’s offshore account to Enzo’s shell company."
Luca turned his gaze to Marco.
He didn't scream.
He simply picked up his crystal champagne flute, emptied the golden liquid onto Marco’s expensive silk lapel, and set the empty glass down.
"You are not a Romano," Luca spat.
"You are a sewer rat."
One by one, the other ten board members stood up from their leather chairs, pushed them in, and walked toward the exit.
Not a single man looked back at Marco.
May you like
They knew the verdict had already been written before they reached the elevator.
***
