Chapter 67 - The Boardroom at Pier 4
The realization slammed into me like a physical blow.
Giancarlo Vance was dead, but his empire was an automated dead-man's switch. The ninety million dollars sitting in the Zurich account wasn't just stolen harbor profits; it was a bounty pool, programmed to execute the moment the probate filing was validated at 9:00 AM Central European Time—less than four hours from now.
"The authorization requires two separate biometric signatures," my father said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes red and swollen. "Giancarlo thought of that. He knew if he forced me to sign under duress, I might try to botch the sequence. The first signature is my municipal encryption code. But the second signature... the secondary override... it isn't mine."
"Whose is it?" Gabriel demanded, stepping away from the wall, his jaw tight.
"It belongs to the President of the Port Authority Board," my father said. "Arthur Vance. Giancarlo’s older brother."
I stared at him in disbelief. "Arthur Vance? Arthur Vance is eighty years old! He hasn't attended a public board meeting in five years! He lives in a private medical suite on the top floor of the Port Terminal building!"
"Arthur built the company before Giancarlo ever touched a dollar," my father said. "Giancarlo handled the dirty work on the docks, but Arthur was the political architect. He holds the primary corporate seal. The Swiss bank won't accept my municipal cancellation unless Arthur’s terminal logs the matching authorization to terminate the escrow."
"Arthur won't sign," Gabriel said coldly. "He’s been protected by three layers of private security and corporate lawyers since Giancarlo died. He claims he’s legally incompetent due to advanced dementia. His attorneys have blocked every federal subpoena Miller’s office has served."
*'He is not incompetent,'* Rosa signed sharply from the doorway. Every eye turned to her hands. *'Arthur Vance played chess with my husband forty years ago. He feigns madness when the storm hits, and he counts his money when the sea goes calm. He is sitting in that penthouse right now, waiting for the Swiss clock to strike nine so the contract clears his ledger.'*
Rosa walked forward, her cane clicking sharply on the linoleum, until she stood directly before Miller.
*'Miller cannot go in with a federal tactical team,'* she signed. *'The moment federal sirens enter the terminal plaza, Arthur’s attorneys will file an emergency injunction for elder harassment, the servers will lock down, and the automatic transfer protocol will finalize while your agents are arguing with his security guards in the lobby.'*
"Then what are you proposing, Mrs. Giammona?" Miller asked, crossing his arms, skeptical but clearly desperate for a solution.
*'Maya goes in,'* Rosa signed.
"Me?" I gasped. "I’m nobody to Arthur Vance. He’ll have his guards throw me out the window."
*'You are David’s sister,'* Rosa signed, her fingers moving with absolute certainty. *'And you hold the power of attorney for the forty percent stake of Pier 4 that I transferred to you tonight. You are not a guest. You are the largest minority shareholder of the Port Terminal Corporation.'*
She turned her sharp gaze onto my father.
*'And Richard goes with her. In his uniform. With his municipal badge. Arthur does not know the federal warrant is signed. He thinks Richard is still his frightened dog who turns the valves when he is told.'*
"It’s a suicide mission," my father whispered, terrified. "Arthur’s guards are private contractors from Detroit. They don't answer to the Chicago police."
"They answer to money," Gabriel said, stepping up beside me, pulling a heavy blue corporate binder from his briefcase. "And they answer to the Giammona name. I will have twenty men surrounding the perimeter of the terminal within thirty minutes. They won't fire a shot unless Arthur’s security draws first. But Maya and Richard walk through the front doors legally, as shareholders demanding an emergency board audit."
I looked down at the laminated badge on the table, then up at my father's broken, sorrowful face.
Eighteen months ago, David had walked onto Slip Nine alone, unarmed, carrying only a notebook and the naive belief that the truth would protect him. He had died in the cold, screaming for a father who was locked on the other side of the glass.
May you like
I wasn't naive anymore. I had sat at Rosa Giammona’s table. I had learned how monsters spoke, how they bargained, and how they hid behind ledgers and legal clauses.
"Get the car," I told Gabriel. "We’re going to see Arthur Vance."
