Chapter 19 - The Viper from New York
The third-floor boardroom was designed to intimidate. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the gray expanse of Lake Michigan, while the center of the room was dominated by a twenty-foot table carved from a single slab of obsidian-black marble.
When Damien and Ellie pushed open the heavy double doors, the room fell into a sudden, suffocating silence.
Victor Rossi sat at the far end of the table. He was a man in his late fifties with slicked-back silver hair, a custom charcoal pinstripe suit that cost more than a small car, and eyes like chips of blue ice. Flanking him were two massive enforcers wearing dark sunglasses indoors—classic New York muscle trying to look untouchable in Chicago territory.
Rossi didn't stand up when Damien entered. He merely crossed one expensive Italian leather shoe over the other and offered a thin, predatory smirk.
“Damien. I was beginning to think the rumors were true,” Rossi drawled, his voice dripping with false warmth. “Word on the street is that the great King of Chicago has gone soft over some hospital charity case. Who would have thought? The ruthless Moretti distracted by a nurse and a kid with a headache.”
Damien didn't blink. He walked toward the head of the obsidian table with slow, deliberate steps, his posture relaxed yet radiating an aura of lethal containment. Ellie walked beside him, her head held high, her expression a mask of icy professional composure.
“Victor,” Damien said, his voice smooth and cold. “You flew all the way from JFK without an appointment, brought uninvited guests past my perimeter, and started your conversation by insulting the woman standing next to me. You must have a very short life expectancy, or a very poor memory of what happened the last time New York tried to test my borders.”
Rossi’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a hard, venomous glare. He leaned forward, resting his palms flat on the marble table.
“Times change, Moretti. The commission in New York isn't happy with how you’ve been running the western shipping lanes. Too many independent contracts. Too much charity work. We represent a majority stake in the syndicates, and we’re here to restructure the board—starting with your authority.”
“Restructure,” Damien repeated softly, pulling out a chair and sitting down slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Rossi. He didn't invite Rossi to sit. He didn't offer him a drink. “You think because I spent a morning ensuring my family was safe, my grip on this city slipped?”
“I know it slipped,” Rossi snapped, gesturing to his enforcers. “You’re distracted, Damien. And in our world, distraction is a fatal diagnosis.”
Before Rossi’s guards could even twitch toward their jackets, the heavy double doors of the boardroom blew wide open with a deafening crash.
Grant Mercer strode into the room, flanked by six elite security operatives carrying assault rifles pointed directly at the floor—and squarely at Victor Rossi’s chest.
At the same time, the perimeter monitors embedded in the boardroom wall flickered to life, displaying real-time exterior footage of New York’s backup vehicles parked on Wacker Drive—surrounded and completely immobilized by a dozen armored Moretti tactical units.
Rossi’s face drained of color in an instant. The slick, arrogant facade vanished, replaced by stark, shivering panic.
“What… what is this?” Rossi stammered, looking around as he realized he had walked straight into an executioner’s parlor.
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Damien leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests, his expression completely devoid of mercy.
“You wanted to check if I was distracted, Victor?” Damien whispered, his voice cutting through the silent room like a razor. “Consider this your second opinion.”
