Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Confrontation
The Harbor Club on Rowes Wharf was the undisputed epicenter of Boston’s old-money power.
Behind its heavy oak doors and stained-glass windows, mayor elections were decided, shipping contracts were signed, and the underground families maintained their fragile peace.
At 10:05 AM, the private mahogany conference room on the top floor was filled with fifteen powerful men in bespoke suits.
At the head of the table sat Dominic Conti—thirty-eight years old, slicked-back dark hair, wearing a sharp Italian suit and three heavy gold rings on his right hand. He was pouring himself a glass of expensive scotch, a triumphant, arrogant smirk playing on his lips.
“Gentlemen,” Dominic announced loudly, leaning against the table. “As you know, my cousin Matteo suffered a... catastrophic security breach at his club last night. Reports indicate he was wounded and forced to flee like a rat through the alleyways.”
Several bosses murmured in concern, exchanging uneasy glances.
“Matteo’s focus has shifted away from our collective interests,” Dominic continued, his voice rising with theatrical outrage. “He spends his time playing legitimate businessman while our borders are weak! I propose we take an immediate vote to strip him of his harbor authority and—”
BANG!
The heavy double doors of the conference room swung open with explosive force.
The loud chatter in the room instantly died.
Matteo Conti walked into the room.
He looked flawless. His charcoal suit was immaculate, his posture supreme, his dark hair combed back without a single strand out of place. The tiny butterfly bandage on his jaw was the only mark left from the night before.
And walking right beside him, her hand tucked comfortably into the crook of his arm, was Penny Higgins.
She wore the sleek cream cashmere sweater, fitted slacks, and held her head high, her eyes scanning the room with calm, fearless composure.
Dominic’s scotch glass froze halfway to his mouth. His face drained of all color, going from flushed arrogance to a sickly, ghostly white in three seconds flat.
“Dominic,” Matteo said softly, his voice echoing through the silent room like a thunderclap. “You look surprised to see me.”
“Matteo...” Dominic stammered, his fingers trembling against the glass. “I... I heard there was an incident at the Velvet Room last night. I was told you were... indisposed.”
Matteo walked slowly down the long conference table, the fifteen crime bosses parting like the Red Sea to let him pass.
He pulled out the leather armchair at the head of the table—the seat of the chairman—and gently guided Penny into it.
Penny sat down comfortably, crossing her legs, resting her hands on her lap, staring directly at Dominic with a cool, sharp smile.
Matteo stood behind her chair, resting one hand casually on her shoulder. The protective, possessive gesture sent an unmistakable message to every man in the room: She is mine.
“The incident was minor, Dominic,” Matteo announced, his dark eyes locking onto his cousin like a hawk targeting prey. “A foolish gunman attempted an ambush. Fortunately, Miss Higgins here—my personal strategic advisor—spotted the threat before the first shot was even fired.”
Dominic’s jaw twitched. “Your... advisor?”
“She saved my life, Dominic,” Matteo said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, razor-sharp cadence. “And more importantly, she provided my security team with a detailed description of the shooter. A man named Marco Rossi... who, according to our phone logs, received a fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer from your private offshore account at 11:00 PM yesterday.”
A collective gasp echoed across the room.
Several senior bosses immediately stood up, drawing their weapons and pointing them directly at Dominic.
“Dominic Conti!” old Don Sal Albanese shouted, his voice shaking with rage. “You hired a hitman against your own family chair?! During a peace treaty?!”
“No! It’s a lie! He’s framing me!” Dominic shrieked, backing away toward the windows, reaching desperately for his coat pocket.
Before Dominic’s hand could touch his holster, Leo Mercer stepped out from behind the door.
CLACK.
Leo raised his suppressed weapon, aiming it squarely at Dominic’s chest.
“Hands on the table, Dominic,” Leo ordered calmly.
Dominic slowly raised his trembling hands into the air, weeping with pathetic fear as two senior guards stepped forward, disarmed him, and forced him down onto his knees before the council.
Matteo didn't move. He kept his hand resting gently on Penny’s shoulder, feeling the quiet strength radiating from her frame.
“Take him to the harbor warehouse,” Matteo ordered the guards quietly. “The council will decide his exile by sunset.”
As Dominic was dragged screaming from the boardroom, the remaining fourteen bosses turned toward Matteo, bowing their heads in absolute submission.
Matteo looked down at Penny.
Her hands were steady. Her eyes were bright. She looked up at him, a tiny, triumphant smirk touching her lips.
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“You did good, Higgins,” Matteo whispered into her ear.
“I told you,” Penny whispered back. “I don't like small men with big mouthpieces.”
