Chapter 8 - The Resurrection of Lorenzo Duca
The silence in the boardroom was absolute. You could hear the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, each second sounding like a judge’s gavel.
Lorenzo walked slowly to the head of the table. He didn't look at Julian at first; instead, he surveyed the six syndicate captains, each of whom had instinctively risen from their chairs out of deep-seated, lifelong habit.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” Lorenzo commanded quietly.
They sat as one man.
Lorenzo reached the head of the table, stood directly opposite Julian, and planted his silver cane firmly on the polished wood.
“Julian,” Lorenzo said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. “I heard you were planning my funeral. I wanted to make sure I didn't miss the eulogy.”
Julian swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the room. “Uncle... I don't know what you mean. We were just discussing business continuity... Dr. Sterling said—”
“Dr. Sterling is currently enjoying the hospitality of my wine cellar,” Lorenzo interrupted smoothly. “Along with a complete analysis of the heavy-metal neurotoxins he’s been prescribing to me for fourteen months to ensure my slow, agonizing decline.”
A collective murmur broke out among the captains. Vincenzo Rossi glared across the table at Julian. “Poison? That’s greaseball cowardice. We don’t do that in Graybridge.”
“We certainly don't,” Lorenzo agreed. He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a thick manila folder, and tossed it onto the table directly in front of Julian. Inside were bank statements, offshore wire transfer receipts, and signed confessions detailing the entire conspiracy between Julian and Dr. Sterling to hijack Duca Enterprises.
“You wanted continuity, Julian?” Lorenzo asked, leaning forward over the table, his gray eyes locking onto his nephew. “You wanted my empire? You forgot the fundamental rule of the Duca family.”
Julian shook his head frantically, backing away until his chair hit the wall. “What... what rule?”
“A king is never dead until his enemies stop trembling.”
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Before Julian could bolt for the exit, Bruno stepped forward, grabbing the younger man by the collar of his expensive Armani suit and slamming him down onto the tabletop so hard the crystal water pitchers rattled.
“Take him to the harbor warehouse,” Lorenzo ordered without a flicker of emotion. “Let him contemplate the support cables. The wind shear out on the docks is notoriously unpredictable this time of year.”
