Chapter 7 - The Summit of Vipers
Two weeks later, the underground summit was called at an abandoned shipping warehouse by the harbor—the very territory Dominic had tried to steal.
Every major capos, lieutenant, and syndicate boss in the city was required to attend. The atmosphere inside the cavernous, dimly lit warehouse was thick with tension, cigar smoke, and the metallic tang of fear.
Dominic Vane sat at the center of a massive steel table, flanked by six armed guards. His eyes were bloodshot, his tailored suit rumpled from days of running from federal investigators and hiding from his own paranoid delusions. He needed this summit to reassert control, to convince the remaining bosses that he was still the future, and that Vincent Corvino was nothing more than a forgotten ghost.
"Listen to me!" Dominic shouted, slamming his fist onto the table as the captains murmured among themselves. "The federal freeze was a temporary glitch! We are restructuring the syndicates under my direct command. Anyone who questions my authority today answers to my men!"
"And what about the millions you lost, Dominic?" a gruff voice echoed from the back of the warehouse.
The crowd parted.
All heads turned toward the massive rolling entrance doors of the warehouse.
The heavy steel doors slowly ground open, creaking in the damp night air. Headlights cut through the darkness. A sleek, black, custom-built Mercedes van rolled inside, stopping dead in the center of the concrete floor.
The side door slid open with a sharp click.
A pair of polished leather shoes hit the pavement. Then, a towering, broad-shouldered man stepped out into the light, steadying himself with heavy forearm crutches before planting his weight firmly on his feet, using a specially designed leg brace system that allowed him to stand upright with absolute, terrifying dignity.
It was Vincent Corvino.
Gasps echoed through the warehouse. Men who hadn't seen him in seven months shrank back instinctively, their hands dropping away from their holsters out of sheer, conditioned terror. Vincent looked paler, leaner, but his eyes were like chips of black obsidian—unforgiving, absolute, and burning with sovereign fury.
Behind him, stepping out of the van with a quiet, professional dignity, wore a sharp, dark pantsuit instead of her maid's uniform. Tessa carried a secure leather briefcase, standing just a step behind his left shoulder like a trusted chief of staff.
Dominic turned white as a sheet. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning translucent.
"V-Vince?" Dominic stammered, his voice losing all its bravado. "You... you can't walk. You're paralyzed!"
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Vincent took a slow, deliberate step forward on his braces, the metal echoes bouncing off the concrete walls like gunshots.
"Paralyzed, Dominic?" Vincent's deep, gravelly voice resonated through the entire warehouse, silencing every whisper. "Or did you just forget that a king doesn't need to walk to crush a snake?"
