Chapter 7 - THE CONCLAVE
By 7:45 PM, the west office was sealed off, Jonah and Marcus were bound in heavy industrial zipties in the security holding room beside Julian, and a fresh squad of loyal guards—personally vetted by Caleb’s long-time lieutenant, Victor—had taken control of the estate perimeter.
In the grand dining room, the massive mahogany table was set for six.
At the head of the table sat Caleb Rowan, wearing a fresh charcoal suit, his expression unreadable, his arms resting on the armrests of his matte-black wheelchair.
Standing two paces behind his right shoulder was Elise Parker.
She was no longer wearing her maid’s apron. Instead, she wore a simple, tailored black suit that Caleb’s personal stylist had delivered thirty minutes prior. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek, professional knot, and her sharp gray eyes scanned the dining room with absolute vigilance.
At 8:00 PM precisely, the grand double doors opened.
Five men walked into the room, surrounded by their personal bodyguards.
At their head was Don Vince Moretti—a heavy-set, silver-haired man of sixty with cold, predatory eyes and a reputation for extreme violence.
“Caleb,” Don Moretti boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings as he took his seat at the far end of the table. “You look remarkably well for a man who spent the morning dealing with... house maintenance.”
The other four syndicate heads took their seats, their bodyguards standing along the perimeter walls.
“My house is entirely clean, Moretti,” Caleb replied smoothly, his hands resting flat on the table. “Though I did have to remove a considerable amount of vermin before dinner.”
Don Moretti’s eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced at the empty seat to Caleb’s left—the seat reserved for Julian.
“Where is your brother, Caleb?” Moretti asked, pouring himself a glass of red wine. “Julian assured me he would be co-chairing this meeting tonight.”
“Julian had a sudden change in his career trajectory,” Caleb answered calmly. “He’s currently occupying a very comfortable cell three stories beneath your feet, alongside Jonah Price.”
A collective shift in posture swept through the bodyguards along the wall. Hands drifted toward jackets.
Don Moretti set his glass down with a hard clack. “Is that so? And what charges did you bring against your own blood, Caleb?”
“Conspiracy to commit murder,” Caleb said, gesturing toward the head of the table. “And attempting to sell family assets to a rat who thought he could buy my territory with a bottle of silicone and a micro-detonator.”
Don Moretti sneered, leaning forward. “You have no proof, Caleb. And even if you do, you’re sitting in a chair with five armed men in your room who realize that Rowan Holdings is weak, fractured, and ripe for division.”
Moretti looked up at Elise, giving her a patronizing, dismissive smirk.
“And who is this?” Moretti mocked. “Your new nurse? Have you resorted to hiring girls to stand guard over your estate?”
Elise stepped forward one pace. She didn't look at Moretti’s face; she looked at the bodyguard standing directly behind Moretti’s left shoulder.
“His left jacket pocket is bulging at a forty-five-degree angle,” Elise said, her voice dropping into a clear, cutting register that carried across the quiet dining room. “That’s a short-barreled shotgun or a modified submachine gun. The second guard on the right has a faint powder residue on his right cuff, meaning he fired a weapon within the last two hours. And Don Moretti himself hasn't touched his wine glass with his right hand because he’s holding a pressure-plate transmitter inside his palm.”
The dining room went entirely silent.
The four other syndicate heads looked at Moretti’s right hand, then at his guards, their expressions instantly hardening with suspicion.
“You brought a pressure-plate bomb into a diplomatic conclave, Moretti?” one of the syndicate heads, a man named Zhao, barked angrily, sliding his chair back. “That violates the charter!”
Don Moretti’s face flushed with dark rage. He glared at Elise as if she were a ghost that had just walked through the wall.
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“Who the hell are you?!” Moretti roared.
“She is my Head of Estate Security,” Caleb answered smoothly, a cold, triumphant smile spreading across his face. “And as you can see, Don Moretti… she notices the tiny details that incompetent men try to hide.”
