Chapter 37 - The Unmasking
The heavy oak doors of the banquet hall swung inward with a reverberating groan, silencing the laughter, the gentle clinking of crystal flutes, and the soft strains of the string quartet.
Over sixty oligarchs, diplomats, and corporate magnates turned toward the entrance. Whispers caught in their throats like dry ash.
At the far end of the banquet table, seated on an elevated dais resembling a modern throne, Lord Alistair Sterling paused mid-sentence, his champagne glass frozen an inch from his lips. His aristocratic composure cracked for the fraction of a second, his pale blue eyes widening with disbelief as his gaze traveled from Sylvester’s towering, bandaged frame down to Lucas.
"Kane," Sterling spoke, his voice dripping with condescension as he slowly lowered his glass. "I had heard you were confined to a hospital bed, nursing an unfortunate hunting accident. And yet here you are, trespassing on private commercial sovereign soil, accompanied by... strays."
A harsh ripple of laughter broke out among Sterling's inner sycophants, but it died instantly under the murderous glare of Sylvester's obsidian eyes.
"The only stray in this room, Sterling," Sylvester said, his boots clicking with rhythmic finality against the polished marble floor as we walked straight down the center aisle, "is the dog who orders snipers to shoot seven-year-old boys from three hundred yards away because he is terrified of a child’s birthright."
Gasps rippled through the room. Several board members glanced nervously at Sterling, whose face hardened into stone.
"You speak in delusions, Kane," Sterling sneered, waving a dismissive hand. "Security, escort these intruders to the street before I have the state marshals arrest them for extortion."
"Touch that radio, and you won't live to see dawn," I spoke up, stepping forward into the chandelier’s brilliance. My voice was clear, ringing with an authority that stunned the elite spectators. I held aloft a sealed leather binder stamped with the crimson wax of the High Court of Zurich. "This is the unsealed testamentary trust of Julian Vance. Validated two hours ago by the International Banking Tribunal, overseen by Sylvester Kane’s legal fleet."
I opened the document and held it directly toward the Consortium’s chief legal counsel, who sat sweating profusely near the head of the table.
May you like
"Read clause four, counselor," I demanded. "Read it aloud so every thief at this table understands who owns the chair Sterling is sitting in."
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