Chapter 12 - The Lion's Den
At 3:15 AM, the top floor of Vance Tower in midtown Manhattan gleamed against the rainy night, a fortress of black glass and steel suspended among the clouds. Inside the expansive mahogany-lined boardroom, Arthur Pendelton paced behind the long conference table, adjusting his gold silk tie with trembling, manicured hands.
Three private security guards in charcoal suits stood by the panoramic windows, their postures tense, hands resting near their concealed holsters.
""He was supposed to be dead in the stairwell!"" Pendelton snapped into his encrypted phone, his patrician voice cracking with panic. ""How does an entire tactical squad fail to neutralize one man carrying an infant?""
""He didn't take the lobby, Arthur,"" a voice replied through the phone. ""He had air support. He’s airborne. If I were you, I’d take the jet at Teterboro and leave the hemisphere.""
""The funds are frozen until the death certificate is certified!"" Pendelton shouted. ""I can't access the offshore—""
The heavy mahogany double doors of the boardroom unlocked with a sharp, pneumatic hiss. The lock mechanism shattered inward, the doors flying open with enough force to splinter against the drywall.
Dante walked in.
He wasn't running. He wasn't breathing hard. He was wearing a fresh black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark ink that coiled around his wrists. He carried nothing in his hands. Behind him stood six heavily armed private contractors in full combat kit, their assault rifles instantly locking onto Pendelton’s three security guards.
""Drop them,"" Dante said simply.
The three guards took one look at Dante’s cold, lifeless eyes and the six red laser dots dancing across their chests. They slowly unholstered their weapons, laid them on the glass table, and stepped back with their hands raised.
""Out,"" Dante instructed his men. ""Take them into the hall. Leave Pendelton.""
The contractors moved with robotic precision, disarming the guards and shoving them out the door, pulling the heavy wood panels shut behind them. Arthur Pendelton was left standing alone at the head of the forty-foot table, his skin the color of curdled milk.
""Dante,"" Pendelton began, forcing a sickly, diplomatic smile that didn't reach his terrified eyes. ""Thank God you’re safe. We heard rumors of an incident at the hospital... we were mobilizing resources to—""
Dante didn't stop walking until he was two feet from the older man. The height difference was immense; Dante looked down at him like an apex predator regarding an insect. ""Sit down, Arthur.""
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Pendelton collapsed into the leather executive chair, his knees entirely giving out. ""Dante, listen to me. Whatever Salvatore told you, it’s a lie. He’s trying to divide us. He’s trying to—""
Dante reached out, grabbed the front of Pendelton’s thousand-dollar suit, and slammed him forward onto the polished wood of the table.
