Chương 14 - The Summit of Wolves
The Foundry was not a warehouse. It was a gilded fortress tucked away behind eight-foot wrought-iron gates in the heavily forested hills of the Hudson Valley.
Originally built as a nineteenth-century steel mill, the estate had been converted into an exclusive private club where the underworld aristocracy conducted business far away from the prying eyes of the FBI’s organized crime strike forces.
At nine o’clock that evening, a motorcade of armored black SUVs snaked up the private mountain road.
Inside the middle vehicle, Blythe sat rigid. Soren had replaced her torn jacket and combat boots with an emerald-green silk evening gown that hugged her curves like water. The high slit revealed a concealed titanium boot-knife strapped to her right thigh, hidden beneath the shimmering fabric. Her hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, exposing the delicate line of her neck and the faint purple bruise near her jawline.
Soren sat beside her, immaculate in a black tuxedo. A heavy platinum signet ring, engraved with the Vanek family crest, adorned his right hand.
“Remember the rules,” Soren said, his voice a low rumble against the hum of the engine. “The Circle of Five operates under an ancient truce inside the Foundry. No weapons drawn in the dining hall. No open challenges without unanimous council consent. But outside that room, they will look for any crack in my armor.”
“And I am the crack,” Blythe said, looking at him.
“They think you are,” Soren corrected, his thumb tracing the bare skin of her shoulder. His touch sent a shiver through her blood. “They think you are a frightened nurse I picked up off a street corner on a whim. If they smell fear on you, they will use it to force a concession. Show them teeth, Blythe. You survived Marko. These old men bleed just as easily.”
The SUV came to a halt. Mikhail opened the door, surveying the grand courtyard with tactical vigilance.
Soren stepped out first, offering his hand. Blythe took it, stepping onto the red carpet rolled out over the flagstones. Armed security personnel wearing tailored suits and tactical earpieces flanked the entrance, their eyes scanning the perimeter.
As Soren led Blythe through the grand arched entryway, the murmurs inside the cavernous ballroom died down.
The interior was magnificent and grotesque: crystal chandeliers suspended from soaring industrial steel beams, black marble floors polished to a mirror finish, and tables laden with vintage champagne and caviar. Over a hundred people in black tie and haute couture stood in scattered clusters.
These were the rulers of the shadow economy: Sicilian capos, Balkan gunrunners, corrupt Wall Street hedge-fund billionaires, and cartel emissaries.
And as Soren walked into the center of the hall with Blythe on his arm, every single eye locked onto them.
“Vanek,” a deep voice rang out from the raised dais at the far end of the room.
An older man with silver hair slicked back and a face like carved granite stepped forward, flanked by two formidable bodyguards. He wore an immaculate white tuxedo jacket.
“You’ve caused quite a mess in Queens, Soren,” the man said, swirling a glass of Scotch. “Fourteen dead at the docks. Marko’s body fished out of the river like discarded chum. And you arrive with a companion instead of an apology.”
“I don’t apologize to dead men, Don Carmine,” Soren said smoothly, his grip on Blythe’s hand firm and steady. “Marko overstepped. He took something that belonged to me. The penalty for theft on my docks has been death since my father sat on this council. Has the law changed since breakfast?”
Don Carmine’s gaze slid from Soren down to Blythe. His dark eyes narrowed, inspecting her like a piece of questionable livestock.
“So this is the prize?” Carmine sneered. “A debt collector’s daughter. Marko burned an entire shipment of automated hardware because he was hunting a stray Campbell?”
Blythe felt the eyes of a hundred killers burning into her. Her pulse hammered in her ears, but instead of shrinking back into Soren’s shadow, she took half a step forward, lifting her chin.
“My father had a name, Don Carmine,” Blythe spoke clearly, her voice slicing through the tense ballroom like a scalpel. “And if you think I’m a stray, you’re welcome to test whether his daughter knows where the shipping manifests are buried.”
The room held its breath. A few whispered gasps broke out among the guests.
Don Carmine’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating glare. Soren’s mouth curved into a terrifying, prideful smirk.
May you like
“You heard her, Carmine,” Soren murmured, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Careful where you dig. You might not like what comes out of the ground.”
***
