Chapter 12 - The Ghost at the TableThe Vale Global Logistics tower dominated the Boston skyline like a monolith of glass and cold ambition.
When our convoy of black armored SUVs pulled up to the subterranean parking garage, the usual press circus was conspicuously absent. Julian’s people had locked down the building, clearing out reporters and replacing the corporate security with private mercenaries.
As we stepped out of the vehicle, the weight of the gold signet ring in my pocket felt heavy against my thigh. Dominic walked beside me, leaning slightly on my arm for support, his posture projecting absolute, unyielding dominance despite his fragile physical state.
We bypassed the main elevators, taking a private freight lift straight up to the fiftieth floor—the executive boardroom.
The heavy mahogany doors were unlocked.
Inside, twelve members of the board of directors sat around a massive quartz table, whispering anxiously among themselves. At the head of the table sat Arthur Vance, a senior partner whose expensive suit couldn't hide the panic sweating down his neck.
When the heavy doors swung open, the murmurs died instantly.
Arthur stood up so fast his chair screeched against the polished marble floor. His face turned the color of ash.
“D-Dominic?” Arthur stammered, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as if seeing a phantom risen from the grave. “That’s... that’s impossible. You were clinically dead!”
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Dominic stepped into the room, his stride steady, his face a mask of carved granite. He walked all the way to the head of the table, pulling out the chair directly opposite Arthur.
“Death is a notoriously bad negotiator, Arthur,” Dominic said, his voice cutting through the silent room like a razor blade. He sat down slowly, resting his hands flat on the quartz surface. “And as for the company... I believe you’re sitting in my seat.”
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