Chapter 14 - THE MANHATTAN PENTHOUSEThe helicopter touched down on the reinforced concrete helipad atop the Vance Tower in downtown Manhattan precisely at midnight.
The wind whipping off the East River carried the bitter chill of late autumn, tearing at Matteo’s coat as he stepped out onto the tarmac. Behind him, Dante and two silent, heavily armed enforcers followed in lockstep. Below them, the glittering grid of New York City sprawled out like a massive circuit board of neon and glass.
They didn't take the elevator. Dante bypassed the security locks with a portable bypass unit, forcing open the heavy steel service doors that led directly into the private penthouse sub-level.
The penthouse was a cathedral of modern minimalism: floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking the skyline, polished concrete floors, and expensive modern art pieces that cost more than small municipal budgets.
Standing by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, holding a crystal glass of amber scotch, was a man in his sixties with impeccably tailored silver hair, a sharp, aquiline nose, and eyes that looked like shattered window glass.
Julian Vance didn't turn around when the heavy steel doors hissed open. He simply gazed out at the city lights.
“I wondered how long it would take the famous Black Lion to crawl out of his country hole,” Vance said smoothly, his British accent dripping with aristocratic condescension. He took a slow sip of his scotch. “Tell me, Matteo... does greasy diner food taste better than corporate sovereignty?”
Matteo walked across the concrete floor, his boots making no sound. He stopped ten feet behind Vance.
“You’ve grown careless, Julian,” Matteo said quietly. “Ghost stories work best when the ghosts stay in the dark. Coming into the light was a mistake.”
Vance finally turned around, a thin, amused smile playing across his lips. He set his glass down on a marble pedestal. “Careless? No, Matteo. I simply realized that men who retire from empires always leave their back doors unlocked. You thought you could marry a waitress, hide out in upstate New York, and pretend the blood on your hands would wash off with tap water.”
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Vance raised a hand, snapping his fingers.
From the shadows behind the architectural pillars, a dozen private mercenaries stepped out, their tactical submachine guns raised, red laser sights painting glowing crimson dots across Matteo’s chest.
