Chapter 6 - The New York Delegation
Forty-eight hours later, in a sprawling glass-and-steel penthouse overlooking Central Park in Manhattan, Julian Vance was pouring a glass of twenty-year-old scotch when his secure satellite phone began to ring.
Vance frowned. The phone was encrypted, routed through three different offshore servers, and known only to a select few operatives—including Dr. Harold Whitmore in Chicago.
He picked up the receiver. "Report."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then, instead of Whitmore’s nervous, high-pitched voice, a deep, resonant baritone filled the speaker.
"Dr. Whitmore is currently unavailable, Mr. Vance," Levi Marconi said smoothly. "He asked me to pass along a message."
Vance froze, his hand tightening around the crystal tumbler until his knuckles turned white. "Marconi."
"The same," Levi replied. "He told me all about the New York formula. He told me about your financial backing, your Atlantic City notes, and your grand plan to clean up the board at Marconi Shipping by eliminating my father eight years ago... and trying to finish the job on me this week."
Vance’s mind raced, calculating the odds, searching for an escape route. "You're bluffing. Whitmore wouldn't talk. He knows what happens if he crosses us."
"Whitmore talked because he realized something very important," Levi said, his voice dropping into that icy, lethal register. "He realized that whatever you were going to do to him in a federal penitentiary was nothing compared to what I was going to do to him in my basement."
"What do you want, Levi?" Vance spat, the polished corporate facade instantly stripping away to reveal the desperate coward beneath. "Name your price. Shares? Cash? Real estate?"
"I don't want your money, Julian," Levi said softly. "I want your attention."
"My attention?"
"Tomorrow morning, federal investigators are going to receive an anonymous package containing full financial wire records linking your holding group to the embezzlement and medical tampering at Street Grace Memorial. By noon, the SEC will freeze your accounts. By Friday, the Department of Justice will issue an indictment for corporate conspiracy and first-degree murder."
Vance slammed his hand down on the mahogany bar. "You can't do that! My connections in Washington—"
"Your connections in Washington belong to me now," Levi interrupted coldly. "Enjoy your view of Central Park while you can, Julian. Because the Iron Wolf is coming east."
May you like
The line went dead.
In the Manhattan penthouse, Julian Vance stared at the dead receiver as the glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the marble floor and spilling amber scotch across the rug like blood.
