Chapter 5 - The Council of Wolves
The boardroom of Vance Holdings sat on the forty-fifth floor of a sleek, black-glass tower overlooking the gray expanse of the East River. The room was dominated by a twenty-foot table of polished obsidian, surrounded by leather executive chairs that were currently occupied by twelve men who looked like they had been pulled from a casting call for international arms dealers and high-end corporate raiders.
I stood at the double glass entrance doors, my fingers curled tightly around the handle of my leather portfolio.
Arthur Pendelton had spent the morning transforming me. I was no longer wearing the white T-shirt or the denim jacket; I wore a bespoke navy-blue wool suit with sharp, structured shoulders, my hair pinned back into a sleek, severe chignon that exposed the hard line of my jaw. It was a costume, a piece of corporate armor designed to hide the fact that I was an art student who had spent the last three years living on instant noodles and volunteer stipends.
"Remember, Clara," Pendelton whispered against my ear as his hand reached out to push open the glass doors. "You do not need to explain yourself to these men. The law has already spoken. You are the chairman. They are the employees."
The moment I stepped into the room, the low, angry rumble of conversation died instantly. Twenty-four eyes snapped to my face, evaluating, analyzing, looking for the telltale tremor of a victim about to be devoured.
Dominic Cross sat halfway down the table, a clean glass of ice water before him, nodding respectfully as I entered. But it was the man sitting at the absolute head of the table—in Carl’s chair—who drew the air out of the room.
Marcus Thorne was sixty years old, with a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite with a dull hatchet. He had broad, massive shoulders that stretched the seams of his pinstripe suit, and his large, calloused hands were covered in old scar tissue that spoke of a childhood spent on the docks long before he had learned how to manipulate international shipping manifests. His eyes were a flat, dead black, entirely devoid of the calculation that made Dominic Cross dangerous; Thorne carried the raw, unadulterated violence of a man who had survived thirty years of underground warfare by being the heaviest object in the room.
He didn't stand when I approached. He leaned back in Carl’s chair, his large fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the obsidian table.
"So this is the little volunteer," Thorne said, his voice a harsh, gravelly rumble that sounded like stones grinding together in a mixer. He didn't use my name. He didn't use my title. "Carl must have been more degraded by that cancer than the medical staff let on. To drop twenty years of family blood and sweat into the lap of a girl who doesn't even know how to clear a customs manifest."
I walked down the length of the table, my heels clicking sharply against the polished concrete floor, until I stood directly across from him. I didn't take the empty chair next to him; I remained standing, leaning forward slightly to plant my hands flat on the obsidian surface, staring directly into his flat black eyes.
"Get out of my chair, Mr. Thorne," I said, my voice carrying a quiet, freezing clarity that made three of the shipping captains down the table adjust their collars uncomfortably.
Thorne paused, his fingers stopping their rhythmic tapping. A dark, ugly flush began to rise along his thick neck. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I said, my eyes never breaking contact with his. "You are the director of logistics for Vance Maritime. Your office is on the thirty-second floor. This is the chairman’s seat, and as Arthur has undoubtedly informed your legal team, the chairman’s seat belongs to me. You have thirty seconds to vacate it before I have the corporate security detail clear your personal belongings from the building."
A low, collective gasp cut through the boardroom. Dominic Cross took a slow, elegant sip of his ice water, a faint, appreciative smirk touching the corner of his mouth.
Thorne stood up slowly, his massive frame towering over me, his broad shoulders throwing a long, dark shadow across my face. He leaned down until his face was inches from mine, the smell of expensive tobacco and old iron radiating off his clothes. "You think a piece of paper from some dying man makes you safe, girl? You think Arthur Pendelton can protect you when the docks go dark and the trucks stop moving? The captains in this room don't report to a marriage registry. They report to me."
"They report to the corporate payroll, Mr. Thorne," I shot back, not retreating an inch from his space. I reached into my portfolio, pulled out a thick, official document bearing the blue embossed seal of the Vance Trust, and dropped it flat on the obsidian table between us. "This is the line-of-credit authorization for Vance Maritime’s operations in Rotterdam and Boston. It requires the chairman's signature by five o'clock today to release the funding for the next quarter's insurance premiums. If you are still sitting in my chair in ten seconds, I will leave this room, return to Greenwich, and let the maritime insurance loop lapse. Let's see how long your captains report to you when their vessels are impounded by the federal coast guard for operating without a bond."
The room went completely, terrifyingly silent.
Thorne stared down at the document, his heavy jaw working as the reality of the chess game Carl had set up closed around his throat like a wire. He looked at Dominic Cross, but the banker was looking at the ceiling, entirely uninvolved. He looked at the captains, but they were staring at their own hands on the table, realizing that the girl in the navy-blue suit held the keys to their bank accounts.
With a low, guttural curse, Thorne stepped back from the head of the table, shoving the heavy leather chair back with enough force to scratch the concrete floor. He turned on his heel and strode toward the glass exit doors, his footsteps booming like cannon fire through the silent office.
May you like
I waited until the glass doors clicked shut behind him, then slowly walked around the table, smoothed down the skirt of my blue suit, and sat down in my husband’s chair.
"Good morning, gentlemen," I said, looking down the long obsidian table at the remaining directors. "Let's begin with the quarterly shipping reports."
