Chapter 3 - The Wolves Assemble
Ten minutes in a room of five hundred silent, hostile aristocrats can feel like a century, but I never broke my stance.
Randolph grew visibly irritated by my refusal to cower. To a man who viewed human beings as line items on an asset sheet, defiance from someone he considered worthless was intolerable. He stood up from his velvet chair, adjusting his gold cufflinks, his posture rigid with fury.
"Prescott, handle your wife," Randolph barked. "Get her out of this ballroom before the press outside catches wind of this circus. The IPO announcement is in twenty minutes."
Prescott nodded, his jaw set, and walked aggressively toward me. He reached out with an open hand, aiming to seize my bare arm and drag me toward the side exit.
"Move, Clara. You’ve embarrassed me enough for one night—"
He never touched me.
A heavy hand clamped onto Prescott’s wrist like an iron vise.
Prescott gasped in pain as his arm was twisted sharply away. He stumbled backward, knocking over a pedestal topped with a massive floral arrangement of white lilies. The crystal vase shattered against the marble floor, water and broken glass splashing across the hem of several nearby designer dresses.
"What the hell—!" Prescott roared, clutching his wrenched wrist.
Standing between me and Prescott was Marcus Cole. Six-foot-four, built like a fortress, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that subtly concealed the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Marcus was the chief of security for Vance Global, a former commanding officer in the Special Boat Service, and a man who had pulled heads of state out of war zones.
Beside Marcus stood four more men, identical in their chilling, disciplined stillness, wearing earpieces with encrypted tactical relays.
"Step back, Mr. Prescott," Marcus said, his British accent calm, flat, and lethal. "If you raise your hand toward Mrs. Vance again, I will break your fingers one by one."
"Mrs. *Vance*?" Prescott snarled, his face turning beet red. "Her name is Prescott! And who the fuck do you think you are? Security! Where is the Plaza security? Arrest these men!"
None of the hotel security moved.
At the main double doors of the ballroom, the venue’s private security guards were already stepping aside, their hands crossed respectfully over their belts, their heads bowed.
Then, from the grand corridor outside, came the sound.
It was not the sputtering exhaust of a vintage pickup truck.
It was the heavy, rhythmic click of leather oxfords on polished granite, accompanied by the low, authoritative cadence of multiple federal-grade radios.
The double doors of the ballroom, twelve feet of hand-carved mahogany and gold leaf, swung open with absolute finality.
Randolph Prescott’s eyes narrowed, peering into the entryway with irritation. "What is this nonsense? I paid two hundred thousand dollars to rent this hall exclusively!"
Through the doors walked a man who did not ask for permission to enter any room in the world.
He was sixty-two years old, broad-shouldered, with silver hair cropped short and sharp steel-blue eyes that had stared down foreign ministers and Wall Street cartels for forty years. He wore a midnight-blue bespoke suit cut by Savile Row’s most exclusive tailor, completely handmade from vicuña wool. On his left wrist gleamed the very Patek Philippe Randolph had dismissed as cheap junk five years ago.
Flanking him were six men in dark suits carrying heavy leather briefcases, followed by two senior partners from Sullivan & Cromwell, the most terrifying corporate litigation firm on the eastern seaboard.
And behind them, quietly taking positions at every single exit of the ballroom, were four agents from the United States Treasury and two marshals from the Southern District of New York.
The room went so cold you could hear the ice melting in the silver buckets.
Senator Bradley, who had been sitting at Randolph's table chatting about golf courses in the Hamptons, suddenly choked on his drink. He dropped his glass onto the table, his face draining of all color.
"Thomas?" the senator whispered, his voice shaking. "Thomas Vance?"
Randolph frowned, glancing at the senator. "Who? Bradley, who is that?"
May you like
"You idiot," Senator Bradley hissed under his breath, scrambling to his feet so fast his chair screeched against the floor. "That’s Thomas Vance. The Vance Trust. He owns the debt on your entire East Coast portfolio!"
***
