Chapter 7 - The Boardroom Ambush in Providence
At 8:00 AM the following morning, the thirty-second floor of the Rhode Island Financial Center in downtown Providence was placed under emergency security lockdown.
The grand thirty-seat executive boardroom of the New England Maritime Alliance, enclosed in soaring architectural glass overlooking Narragansett Bay, was packed with the twelve members of the board of directors, six high-priced corporate defense attorneys, and prominent high-society investors.
Prescott Lyle sat at the head of the long mahogany table, dressed in a sharp bespoke pinstripe suit, his diamond cufflinks catching the morning sun as he finalized the sixty-million-dollar European logistics contract.
"Gentlemen," Lyle announced with a triumphant, condescending smile. "With the unfortunate operational and structural default of the Ostrander estate parcel, the Alliance has officially secured ninety-nine percent of the deep-water shipping lanes of Rhode Island Sound."
The heavy double mahogany entrance doors of the boardroom were kicked open with concussive, concussive force.
The two private security guards standing outside were thrown backward onto the carpet as four armed federal marshals in tactical gear strode into the room, their weapons raised at the high ready.
Every director at the table jumped to their feet in sheer, paralyzed terror.
Nathan Vance strode into the boardroom.
He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal three-piece suit beneath a heavy black overcoat, his presence commanding immediate, breathless silence across the entire thirty-second floor.
Walking beside him was Clara Vance-Ostrander, dressed in an elegant navy wool power suit, her posture straight, commanding the room with the unshakeable dignity of a rightful sovereign matriarch.
Beside Clara walked Gideon, the massive black mastiff trotting calmly at her side, his heavy paws making soft, measured taps against the parquet floor.
Prescott Lyle froze, his gold pen slipping from his fingers, clattering loudly against the mahogany table.
"Clara...?" Lyle choked out, his face draining of every single drop of color until he looked like a corpse in a pinstripe suit. "You... you died in 2019! This is an impossible forgery!"
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Clara stepped to the head of the table, looking down at the man who had ordered her home burned to the ground.
"I didn't die, Prescott," Clara said, her voice rich, clear, and ringing through the silent hall like a silver bell. "I was waiting for my nephew to buy my house back."
