Chapter 6 - THE RATIFICATION
Friday afternoon arrived with a dark, heavy sky that promised a severe late-autumn thunderstorm over Long Island.
By 2:00 p.m., four luxury black SUVs pulled up the long curving driveway of the Mercer estate, parked in front of the grand entrance, and disgorged eight men in dark, tailored suits.
At the head of the party was Henri Corneille—a tall, hawk-faced French-Canadian billionaire with silver hair, cold blue eyes, and a cruel, thin mouth. Beside him walked Anthony Russo, Vanessa’s father—a heavy-set man with thick fingers, wearing an expensive cashmere coat.
Behind them were six heavily armed private security operatives carrying concealed automatic weapons beneath their jackets.
The party was escorted into the grand library.
Dominic sat behind his mahogany desk. He wore a crisp dark suit, his silver tie immaculate, his face passive, vacant, and still. Beside him stood Dr. Calvin Hale, holding his leather medical bag, and Vanessa Russo, looking breathtaking in an emerald-green dress.
Grant Bell stood quietly near the library’s double doors, his hands folded neatly in front of his belt, looking like an unremarkable security chief doing his routine duty.
Anthony Russo walked up to the desk, slamming a heavy leather binder onto the polished wood floor.
“Let’s get this over with,” Russo said loudly, not bothering to lower his voice because he believed Dominic couldn't hear a word. “Corneille’s flight back to Montreal leaves at six.”
Henri Corneille looked down at Dominic with deep, visible disgust.
“This is the great Dominic Mercer?” Corneille scoffed in a thick French accent. “He looks like a corpse waiting for a coffin. It’s pathetic that Ethan took two years to get rid of, but this one was defeated by three drops of oil in his ear.”
Dr. Hale offered a sleek, greasy smile. “The neuro-toxin worked flawlessly, Monsieur Corneille. Three years of continuous dosage destroyed his spirit completely. He doesn't even realize he’s signing away his entire empire today.”
Vanessa chuckled, leaning over Dominic’s shoulder. She patted his cheek with a gentle, affectionate gesture, then opened the binder, pointing to the signature line on the port deed transfer documents.
She handed Dominic an expensive gold fountain pen.
Dominic took the pen. He looked down at the legal documents.
The papers transferred total operational control of six major New York shipping terminals, four Atlantic transport lines, and eighty acres of prime waterfront real estate to the Corneille Infrastructure Corporation for the absurdly low sum of one dollar.
“Look at him,” Russo laughed softly, turning to Corneille. “He’s holding the pen like a good little dog. Go on, Dominic. Sign the paper so we can go celebrate.”
Henri Corneille reached into his coat, pulled out a gold cigar case, and lit a Cuban cigar, blowing a thick cloud of blue smoke into the room’s clean air.
“A pity about his brother Ethan,” Corneille sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “Ethan had brains. If Ethan hadn't opened that delivery package inside the restaurant three years ago, I might have had to pay actual money for these ports. But this deaf bastard... he made it so easy.”
Dr. Hale stepped forward, pulling the amber glass bottle from his pocket. “As soon as he signs, I’ll administer the final lethal dose. The stroke will occur within two hours.”
Dominic sat quietly behind his desk.
He looked at the gold fountain pen in his hand.
Then he slowly unscrewed the cap.
He held the pen over the signature line for three agonizing seconds.
Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, Dominic drove the gold fountain pen deep through the center of the legal documents, slamming it into the solid oak desk beneath, snapping the gold nib completely in half with a sharp CRACK.
The room fell into absolute silence.
Vanessa blinked in shock. “Dominic? What are you doing?”
Dominic did not write on a notepad. He did not look at her lips.
May you like
He leaned back in his leather chair, crossed his legs comfortably, looked directly into Henri Corneille’s cold blue eyes, and spoke in a clear, deep, resonant voice that echoed off the high library walls:
“Your French accent is terrible, Henri. And your cigar smells like cheap garbage.”
