Chapter 5 - The Tribunal at the Harvard Club
The private third-floor library of the Harvard Club in Midtown Manhattan was an ancient, vaulted cathedral of dark English oak, leaded glass, and three centuries of high-society pedigree.
Around an enormous thirty-seat mahogany conference table sat the forty senior caporegimes, port commissioners, corporate litigators, and banking magnates who commanded the Atlantic shipping corridors.
At the head of the table sat sixty-year-old Victor Vance, dressed in his bespoke double-breasted pinstripe suit, his silver hair slicked back, raising a crystal glass of freshly squeezed juice to the assembled council.
Beside him sat his son, Julian Vance, holding an encrypted leather portfolio containing the newly drafted corporate receivership charters.
"Gentlemen," Victor Vance announced into the quiet room, his cultured voice dripping with manufactured sorrow. "Adrian Blackwood has failed this syndicate. For five years, he has left this house without a blood heir, paralyzing our corporate credit lines and inviting federal regulatory scrutiny. Under Section 14 of the sovereign family compact, executive control of the Port of New York must transfer to House Vance before the financial markets open at nine."
The heavy, hand-carved double mahogany entrance doors of the library blew inward with concussive hydraulic force.
The security sentries stationed outside were thrown back against the oak wainscoting as sixteen armed operators from the Blackwood private tactical division swept through the breach, suppressed carbines held at the high ready, red laser sights instantly painting every man at the table.
Adrian Blackwood strode down the center carpeted aisle.
He wore his tailored black three-piece suit beneath his heavy black wool overcoat, his presence commanding immediate, breathless terror across the forty-man council.
Walking on his right arm was I.
I wore an exquisite, tailored emerald wool power dress Mrs. Gable had helped me select, my dark hair styled in an immaculate chignon, my chin lifted with absolute, unbending sovereignty.
Behind us walked Frank Callahan, Adrian’s chief corporate litigator, accompanied by Special Agent Raymond Callahan of the FBI’s Organized Crime Strike Force, flanked by four armed federal marshals carrying steel evidence cases stamped with the gold seal of the United States District Court.
Every capo at the table jumped to their feet in sheer, paralyzed shock.
Victor Vance froze. His crystal glass slipped from his fingers, shattering across the mahogany table in a violent spray of citrus and crystal shards.
Every drop of color drained from Victor’s face, leaving his skin the shade of wet limestone.
"Blackwood...?" Victor stammered, backing away from the table, his hands shaking violently. "What... what is the meaning of this armed circus? This is a private corporate assembly!"
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Adrian stopped at the foot of the long table, resting his hands flat against the wood.
"The assembly is adjourned, Victor," Adrian said, his baritone booming off the coffered ceilings like an iron bell. "Because Vivien Carter just audited your bloodline."
