Chapter 131: The Dinner of Knives

The proof was digital, absolute, and devastating. But Anton wanted more. He wanted the confrontation. He wanted to see the mask slip in person, to witness the moment the traitor realized the game was over. He also needed to maintain the illusion of normalcy for the other two suspects—Vance and Vartan—until the net could be closed completely. And so, he devised his own piece of theatre: a dinner.

It was billed as a “strategic council,” a private, off-the-books gathering to discuss the post-Kijani landscape. The invitations went to Eleanor Vance, David Vartan, and Maya Li. A small, elite group. The inner circle, minus the known traitors. The irony was a private, bitter pleasure.

Sabatine, from his hidden vantage point in the city, monitored the preparations with a sniper’s focus. He had access to the penthouse’s security feeds, the guest list, even the menu. He saw the sleek table being set in the dining area adjacent to the main living space, the crystal and silver gleaming under low light. A stage was being set.

“It’s a risk,” Sabatine’s voice came through Anton’s earpiece, a tiny, private thread in the bustling quiet of the pre-dinner hour. “Having them all in one room. If Li panics…”

“She won’t,” Anton murmured, adjusting his cufflinks before a mirror. His reflection was calm, polished, a man in control. “She’s too disciplined. She’ll think this is a sign of my continued trust, my need for her counsel in a crisis. It will embolden her. And I want to see Vartan and Vance’s reactions. I need to be sure they’re clean.”

“Understood. I’ll be watching. Every twitch.”

The guests arrived within minutes of each other. Eleanor Vance, in a sharply tailored trouser suit, her gaze immediately drawn to the penthouse’s upgraded, visible security measures with a technician’s curiosity. David Vartan, oozing polished charm, complimenting the view, his eyes subtly assessing Anton’s demeanour for any sign of the strain the markets were speculating about. And Maya Li, arriving last, a vision of serene composure in a dove-grey dress, carrying a leather folio as if ready for a board meeting.

Anton greeted each with practiced warmth, the perfect host. The air was thick with unspoken tension, but it was the tension of a company under pressure, not of a trap about to spring. Wine was poured. The first course—a delicate scallop ceviche—was served.

Sabatine watched from multiple angles: the wide shot from a camera in a smoke detector, a tighter feed from a lens disguised in a piece of modern art. He saw the micro-expressions, the body language. Vance was engaged, leaning forward, talking about firewalls and penetration testing, her passion for her domain overriding corporate politeness. Vartan was performative, telling a mildly amusing story about a negotiating blunder in Stuttgart, his laughter a fraction too loud.

And Li. She was a sphinx. She listened, nodded, and offered the occasional, precise legal observation. She ate with small, neat bites. She was the picture of loyal, unflappable counsel.

The conversation, expertly steered by Anton, moved to the fallout from the Kijani withdrawal. He allowed a carefully measured display of frustration. “A strategic setback,” he called it, his jaw tight. “But it frees capital for other priorities. The Stuttgart acquisition is now our primary focus. David, your team’s work there has been exceptional.”

Vartan preened slightly. “Thank you, Anton. The Heisenberg family is sentimental, but they respect strength. Our revised bid shows both.”

Anton nodded, then turned his gaze to Li. “Maya, the regulatory approvals for the Stuttgart transfer—any hidden landmines? I don’t want another… surprise.”

Li took a sip of water, her movements economical. “The German authorities are thorough, but predictable. The paperwork is clean. The only potential delay would be a last-minute injunction from a minority shareholder, but our ownership structure is designed to prevent that.” She gave a thin, professional smile. “I’ve seen to it.”

I’ve seen to it. The words, so innocent, sent a chill down Sabatine’s spine as he watched. He saw nothing on her face but assurance.

The main course arrived—a herb-crusted rack of lamb, the smell of rosemary and garlic filling the air. As the plates were set, Anton smoothly shifted topics again, this time to a seemingly minor, administrative matter.

“While we’re on the subject of clean paperwork,” he said, cutting into his lamb, “Jessica flagged a minor anomaly in one of the legacy property servers. The Hampshire estate archives. Some kind of indexing glitch. Probably nothing, but with everything that’s happened, I’ve asked for a full forensic sweep of all non-core systems. A nuisance, but necessary.”

He delivered the line casually, as if commenting on the weather.

Sabatine watched the table on his screens, his own breathing stilled.

Eleanor Vance frowned. “Which server? I can have my team run a diagnostic, save the external auditors the billable hours.”

David Vartan waved a hand, his mouth full. “Bor-ing. Leave it to the lawyers and the geeks.” He laughed at his own joke.

Maya Li set her knife and fork down. Precisely. Parallel on the plate. Her hand, reaching for her wine glass, was steady. But Sabatine, zooming the camera in, saw it. The slightest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her right eye. A tiny, involuntary flutter of the muscle. It lasted less than a second. Then her face was a smooth mask again.

“A prudent step, Anton,” she said, her voice even. “Given the attempts on our digital infrastructure. I’ll coordinate with the external firm to ensure privilege is maintained. We wouldn’t want sensitive personal documents caught in a broad dragnet.”

Her response was perfect. Concerned, professional, protective. But the twitch had been there. The flinch at the mention of the Hampshire server, the specific system where the poisoned blueprint lay.

Anton, from his seat at the head of the table, had seen it too. He met Sabatine’s silent observation through the hidden lens, a minuscule flick of his own eyes acknowledging the tell.

“Thank you, Maya,” Anton said, his tone warm with gratitude. “I knew I could count on you to handle it discreetly. Some things are best kept out of the corporate spotlight.”

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of business talk and clinking silver. Sabatine continued to watch, but Li gave nothing else away. She was a master. But she had twitched. In the world of lies they inhabited, a single twitch was a confession.

After dessert and coffee, the guests departed. Vance left with a brisk nod, already thinking about servers. Vartan left with a slap on Anton’s back and a promise of “Stuttgart in the bag.” Li left last, her handshake firm, her gaze steady. “Get some rest, Anton. The path forward is clear.”

When the door closed on the last of them, the penthouse was silent. Anton stood in the foyer, the affable host vanishing from his face, leaving behind the cold, relentless hunter.

He didn’t move until Sabatine’s voice came through his earpiece. “She flinched. At the Hampshire mention. It was her.”

“I saw it,” Anton said, his voice a low growl. “The perfect lawyer. Right down to the micro-expression of guilt.”

“What now?” Sabatine asked.

“Now,” Anton said, walking towards the war room, the ghost of a ruthless smile on his lips, “we give her exactly what she asked for. We let her ‘coordinate the external audit.’ And we watch as she tries to erase the evidence. We’ll have her for treason, and for attempted destruction of evidence. We’ll bury her.”

The dinner of knives was over. The suspect had been narrowed from three to one, not by a process of elimination, but by a single, treacherous twitch. The trap had been sprung, not with a slam, but with the quiet setting down of a wine glass. The endgame had begun. And the enemy within, for all her composure, had just blinked.

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