Chapter 47 - The Ghost of the Black Sea
The fog returned with the twilight, settling thick and cold over the dark waters of the bay.
The *Iron Pavilion* rose from the sea like a rusted, multi-tiered metal island, its steel struts lit by golden incandescent lanterns that cast sickly yellow reflections across the black swells. A dozen luxury launches and armored patrol boats circled its perimeter like hungry sharks.
Sylvester stepped onto the wet metal platform of the landing deck, dressed in an immaculate black tuxedo beneath a heavy wool overcoat. He looked as though he were arriving at an elite opera house rather than the lion's den of the Black Sea syndicate. Behind him walked only Marcus, who carried a single reinforced titanium briefcase.
Armed guards with balaclavas and submachine guns frisked Marcus thoroughly, confiscated his sidearm, and waved Sylvester forward without daring to touch him. Sylvester’s reputation preceded him; even among foreign mercenaries, nobody wanted to be the man who laid hands on Sylvester Kane unless ordered to do so.
They were escorted up three flights of grated stairs into the central ballroom of the platform.
Inside, the contrast was jarring. Persian rugs covered the industrial steel floor; crystal chandeliers hung from structural iron girders; champagne flowed into fluted glasses held by corrupt diplomats, oligarchs, and black-market arms brokers.
At the far end of the room, sitting on an elevated throne-like leather chair beneath the flags of the fallen Russian empire, sat Grand Duke Alexei Romanov.
He was an imposing figure in his late fifties, with a neatly trimmed silver beard, cold pale eyes, and a broad chest decorated with obscure aristocratic medals. Beside him stood a dozen elite bodyguards, their hands resting on concealed holsters.
"Ah, the legendary Kane," Alexei said, clapping his hands together slowly as the ballroom fell into a tense, breathless silence. "The street enforcer who managed to dress himself up in bespoke suits and buy half of an American metropolis. Come, sit. Let us discuss the price of Julian Vance’s legacy."
Sylvester walked to the center of the room, stopping ten paces from the dais. He did not sit.
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"I have no interest in your champagne, Romanov," Sylvester said, his voice echoing cleanly off the steel beams. "And Julian Vance’s legacy is not for sale."
Alexei chuckled, swirling amber liquor in a crystal tumbler. "Everything is for sale, Mr. Kane. Even your life. You have five minutes to surrender the boy's key, or my corvettes will turn the Kane sanctuary into ash. Do not test my patience."
