Chapter 4 - The Sovereign Steps In
The dining room of Belladonna fell into a dead, terrified quiet.
There were people sitting at the white-cloth tables who recognized Dante Vance instantly. Two prominent city councilmen sitting near the kitchen entrance turned pale, set their forks down, and stared straight at their plates, pretending they were somewhere else. A local magistrate sitting at table twelve quietly reached into his coat, turned off his phone, and slid it beneath a napkin.
Dante did not look at the councilmen. He did not look at the waiters who had backed up against the kitchen doors.
He walked straight to the center of the room, his heavy leather boots making no sound against the thick Persian carpet.
Graham Vale rushed out from behind the velvet curtain, his hands shaking, his tie crooked. "Excuse me! Sir! You can't just lock the doors! We are a private business—"
Viktor stepped into Graham’s path.
He didn't hit him. He simply placed one massive, scarred hand flat against Graham’s chest and pushed forward two inches. Graham hit the wood paneling of the host stand with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs, sinking to his knees with a wheeze.
"Stay down," Viktor said softly.
Tiffany Monroe lowered her phone, her brow furrowing with arrogant irritation. "Um, who do you think you are? You're ruining my live video! Do you know who my dad is?"
Dante stopped three feet from table four.
He looked down at Tiffany. He didn't look angry. His face was an unreadable mask of absolute, terrifying authority.
"Your father is Arthur Monroe," Dante said, his voice carrying easily across the silent room. "He is currently sitting in his home office in Greenwich, trying to figure out why the federal reserve board just froze his bank’s liquidity clearing account at seven-forty-five tonight."
Tiffany laughed, though the sound was high and uncertain. "What? That's ridiculous! My dad is—"
Dante reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, pressed one button, and laid it flat on the white tablecloth in front of her.
He pressed the speakerphone icon.
The phone rang once.
"Tiffany?!" Arthur Monroe’s voice burst through the speaker, ragged, screaming, and drenched in pure, unadulterated panic. "Tiffany, where are you?!"
Tiffany blinked, staring at the phone. "Dad? I'm at Belladonna... what's happening?"
"What did you do?!" her father screamed. "I just got a call from the chairman of the Federal Reserve! Vance Holdings just called in sixteen million dollars in short-term notes! My board is meeting in twenty minutes to vote on my removal! They said my daughter did something at a restaurant! Who did you touch, Tiffany?! Who did you put on your stupid stream?!"
Tiffany’s hand trembled. The phone in her right hand slipped an inch through her manicured fingers. She looked up from the speakerphone to Dante’s pale grey eyes.
"Dad..." she whispered, her voice cracking. "There's... there's a man here..."
"Put him on!" Arthur yelled. "Put him on right now!"
Dante did not pick up the phone. He simply looked down at the small speaker.
"Arthur," Dante said smoothly.
The line went dead quiet for two seconds. The sound of Arthur Monroe breathing heavily through his nose echoed across table four.
"Mr... Mr. Vance?" Arthur’s voice dropped into a register of pathetic, shaking supplication. "Mr. Vance, please... whatever happened... it's a mistake... Tiffany is young, she doesn't think—"
"Your daughter poured a glass of cold soda over my wife’s head twenty minutes ago, Arthur," Dante said softly. "And then she broadcasted it to fifty thousand people."
A long, terrible gasp escaped Arthur Monroe’s throat over the speakerphone.
"Your... your wife?" Arthur choked out. "Mr. Vance, I... I didn't know you were married... she didn't know—"
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"She knows now," Dante said.
He reached down, picked up his phone, and ended the call.
