Chapter 7 - The Gathering of Jackals
At the elite Metropolitan Club in the heart of the financial district, Mark Vance lounged in a leather armchair, swirling a tumbler of twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch. Beside him, dressed in an oversized trench coat and dark sunglasses, Vanessa was trembling uncontrollably, her manicured nails chewed down to the quick.
"Calm down, you neurotic idiot," Mark hissed under his breath, glaring at her over the rim of his crystal glass. "You're drawing attention to us."
"Calm down?!" Vanessa shrieked in a furious, hushed rasp, pulling her collar down to reveal the dark red finger marks encircling her throat. "Julian knows, Mark! He saw the bruises! He saw the boy collapsed! He threw me out onto the street like trash! His security took my phone, my cards, everything!"
Mark scoffed, taking an arrogant sip of his drink. "Julian is a businessman, Vanessa, not an assassin. What can he do? File for divorce? Let him. You have the prenuptial agreement tied up in offshore accounts. And as for the boy... the maid was intimidated, the cameras were scrubbed. It’s your word against an autistic, traumatized seven-year-old."
"You don't understand," Vanessa pleaded, genuine hysteria bleeding into her voice. "The look in his eyes... I've never seen him look like that. It wasn't anger, Mark. It was death."
Mark set his glass down with an arrogant smirk. "My dear brother thinks he’s invincible because he owns sixty percent of the parent company. But he forgot that I control the shipping terminals. I control the port authority contracts. By sunrise tomorrow, the board of directors will receive an anonymous leak regarding Julian’s private financial mismanagement. While he’s sitting by his dying brat’s bedside playing the grieving father, I will execute a boardroom coup."
"And what about the insurance?" Vanessa asked, greed momentarily overcoming her terror.
Mark leaned forward, his green-eyed snake tattoo peeking out beneath his crisp French cuffs. "Diego won't survive the week. I have a friend inside the ICU pharmacy. A simple insulin overdose, completely undetectable in a post-trauma pediatric patient. Once the boy is buried, we cash the sixty million, liquidate the shipping assets, and vanish to Dubai."
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Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the private smoking lounge swung open.
The background chatter of wealthy patrons abruptly died. Two towering men in tailored black suits walked in, followed by Julian Vance.
