Chapter 5 - The Paragon Suite
The penthouse suite of the Hotel Grand Paragon was bathed in soft crimson light coming from the neon signs of downtown Providence three hundred feet below.
At 1:30 a.m., Victor Chenier was sitting at a glass dining table, pouring himself a glass of fifty-year-old cognac. He was a man in his late fifties, with slicked silver hair, a tailored Italian suit, and a thick gold signet ring on his right pinky finger. Sitting across from him were three heavy-set men in dark leather jackets, their submachine guns resting casually on the glass table beside plates of half-eaten steak.
“Ryan is late,” one of the bodyguards muttered, checking his phone. “The wedding was supposed to end four hours ago.”
“Ryan is a weak boy,” Victor Chenier rasped, swirling his cognac. “He gets nervous around his big brother. But it doesn't matter. The girl will open the side door at midnight, and my hit team in Montreal will execute the old man in his hospital bed. By tomorrow morning, Alessandro Moretti will be mourning his dead bride and searching for non-existent enemies while we take control of the waterfront.”
Before the bodyguard could reply, the heavy reinforced electronic lock on the suite’s front door made a sharp click.
The green light on the door handle illuminated.
The door swung open slowly.
Victor Chenier froze, his cognac glass hovering halfway to his lips.
Standing in the doorway was not Ryan Vance.
Standing in the doorway was me.
I was flanked by Luca Santoro and six Moretti tactical operatives dressed in black body armor, their silenced carbines raised and targeted directly at the chests of the three bodyguards.
“Good evening, Victor,” I said smoothly, stepping into the foyer and closing the door behind me with a gentle click.
The three bodyguards reached frantically for their weapons on the table, but before their fingers could touch the cold steel, six muffled thwip-thwip shots shattered the quiet of the room.
The three bodyguards collapsed onto the Persian rug like sacks of wet flour, dead before they hit the floor.
Victor Chenier dropped his cognac glass. It shattered against the tile floor, splashing amber liquid across his expensive leather shoes. He scrambled backward in his chair, his face twisting into a mask of pure terror as he looked at the barrels of six rifles pointed at his head.
“Moretti…” Chenier gasped, his voice cracking. “How… how did you get in here?!”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key card Sophia had given me, and tossed it onto the glass table. It slid across the smooth surface, coming to a stop directly beside his shattered glass.
“Your rat had bad habits, Victor,” I said, walking slowly over to the bar and picking up an unopened bottle of scotch. “He left paper trails. And he underestimated a four-year-old child.”
Chenier swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he raised them slowly into the air. “Listen to me, Alessandro… this was just business! Ryan came to me! He offered me the shipping routes! He said you were getting soft!”
“Ryan is currently bleeding on the floor of my boathouse,” I said, unscrewing the cap of the scotch bottle and pouring myself two fingers into a clean glass. “And you are sitting in my city, drinking my whiskey, and threatening my wife’s father.”
“I can pay you!” Chenier bargained desperately, his knees shaking against the table legs. “Twenty million dollars! Cash! Transferred to your Swiss accounts within the hour! Just let me take my men and leave New England!”
I walked over to the glass table, picked up his half-empty glass of cognac, and poured my scotch directly into it, mixing the two liquids together.
“You don't understand the Moretti family, Victor,” I murmured, leaning down until my face was inches from his cold, sweaty forehead. “My father built this empire on fear. But I run it on order. And order requires that when someone attempts to poison my home, I burn their entire house to the ground.”
I looked at Luca.
“Call the Boston authorities,” I commanded. “Tell the Special Task Force that Victor Chenier’s private server in this room contains thirty years of human trafficking logs, bribery records of five Canadian ministers, and the location of three illegal narcotics labs in Quebec.”
Chenier’s eyes went wide with sheer horror. “No… no! You can't give that to the feds! That destroys my entire family! That puts my brothers in prison for life!”
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“I know,” I whispered cold against his ear. “In our world, Victor… death is the easy way out. Living in a federal cage knowing you lost everything because of a silver watch… that is your real punishment.”
Luca stepped forward with heavy plastic zip-ties as my men restrained the syndicate boss, dragging him down to his knees as the sound of distant police sirens began to wail through the streets of Providence below.
