32: The London Protocol

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

POV: Julian Vane-Moretti

The fog over the Thames was an entirely different beast than the neon-tinted mist of our city. It felt ancient, a heavy, gray shroud that tasted of coal dust, salt, and secrets that had been buried in the silt since the Victorian era. From the balcony of our penthouse at the Shard, the world below was a ghost-map. The winding silver ribbon of the river was the only thing that felt real, cutting through the sprawling metropolis like a jagged blade.

"The British don't fight like the Jimenez brothers or the old South End crews, Dante," I said, my voice barely carrying over the muffled hum of London traffic seventy stories down. I didn't need to turn to know he was there; I could feel the atmospheric shift as he approached. "They don't use car bombs or drive-bys to settle a grievance. They use libel, high-court injunctions, and the polite clink of a porcelain teacup. They’ll ruin your reputation, freeze your liquid assets, and smile while they hand you a scone."

Dante stepped out onto the balcony, his heavy, familiar tread on the hardwood a grounding force against the ethereal gray of the London morning. He stepped up behind me, his body heat a sharp, welcome contrast to the damp, biting air. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back against the solid wall of his chest, and hooked his chin over my shoulder.

"I don't care if they use poisoned crumpets or a thousand-page lawsuit, Julian," Dante grunted, his voice a low vibration against my neck. "The London Docklands are the gateway to the Euro-market. If we don't secure the deep-water terminal in Rotherhithe, the Malta Syndicate will just reroute their entire supply chain through the English Channel. We’d be choked out of the continent before we even set up a distribution hub."

"I know the stakes," I murmured, leaning back into him and letting his strength take my weight. "But Lord Alistair Cavendish isn't a mobster we can just lean on. He’s a Peer of the Realm, a man with a lineage that predates the very concept of our country. He owns the land the terminal sits on, and he’s currently refusing to even look at the lease agreement. His solicitors sent a formal letter this morning stating he finds our 'reputation' and our capital altogether distasteful."

"Distasteful?" Dante let out a dark, dry laugh that lacked any humor. "That’s rich. The Cavendish family built their entire fortune on the back of the Opium Wars and colonial exploitation. Their 'reputation' is written in the blood and misery of half the globe. They aren't actually offended by our violence, Julian. They’re just offended that we’re more efficient at it than they are."

I turned in his arms, the movement fluid and practiced. I reached up to adjust the silk tie at his throat, smoothing the lapels of his bespoke tuxedo. We were dressed for a gala at Buckingham Palace—a den of high-society vipers that made the Moretti boardroom look like a kindergarten playground. In this city, the sharks wore sashes and medals, but they bit just as hard.

"I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours performing a deep-tissue audit of the Cavendish estate," I said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face as I met his obsidian gaze. "It turns out that beneath the tweed and the heritage, Alistair has a gambling problem. Not the kind you fix with a modest bank loan, but the kind you fix by selling off the family's crown jewels. Specifically, he’s been bleeding the offshore holdings in the British Virgin Islands to hide his staggering losses at the Mayfair clubs from the eyes of the Inland Revenue."

Dante’s eyes glinted with that familiar, lethal pride the look he gave me whenever I found the crack in a fortress he was prepared to lay siege to. "And I assume you’ve already moved in to acquire the debt?"

"I didn't just acquire it, Dante. I am the debt," I said, my voice a soft purr. "I spent the morning buying the holding company that owns his primary creditor. As of three o'clock this afternoon, the Moretti-Vane conglomerate effectively owns the mortgage on the Cavendish family seat in Sussex. If Alistair doesn't sign that lease by midnight, I’m putting his ancestral home on the open market and handing his tax records to the BBC."

Dante let out a boisterous laugh that echoed against the glass of the penthouse, lifting me off my feet for a brief, triumphant second. "This is exactly why I married you, Julian. Most men bring their husbands flowers or jewelry to celebrate a new city. You bring me a British Lordship on a silver platter."

"Flowers die and jewelry gets stolen," I said, my fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck as he set me down. "But property? Property is forever. And tonight, we’re going to show Lord Cavendish exactly what happens when you try to audit a Vane."

I looked out at the Thames, the fog finally starting to lift. The river didn't look like a ghost anymore. It looked like a vein, and we were about to become the heart that pumped the blood through it.

The London Expansion: Part II

POV: Dante Moretti

The gala was a sea of old gold, white ties, and the kind of quiet, arrogant power that only comes from centuries of unearned wealth. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the underlying, metallic tang of cold ambition. I watched Julian move through the crowd like a shark in a koi pond. He was a Vane by blood, but he had become a Moretti in spirit sharp, cold, and utterly relentless in his pursuit of the win.

I stood by the marble pillars, a glass of vintage scotch in my hand, playing the part of the "American muscle" they all expected me to be. Let them think I was the blunt instrument. It made it so much easier for Julian to slide the knife between their ribs.

I watched him approach Lord Alistair Cavendish. Alistair was a man made of tweed and entitlement, his face currently flushed a deep, unhealthy red from too much gin and the pressure of a world he no longer understood.

"Lord Cavendish," Julian said, his voice a melodic purr that I knew preceded a kill.

"Moretti," Cavendish spat, looking Julian up and down with blatant condescension, his lip curling. "I believe my solicitors were quite clear. The Rotherhithe terminal is not for sale to... people of your specific background. This is a city of heritage, not a frontier for upstarts."

"Background is such a fluid concept in the digital age, don't you think?" Julian asked, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter with a grace that made Cavendish look clumsy. "For instance, your background involves a very interesting set of accounts in Tortola. Accounts that, as of this morning, report to a board of directors chaired by me. It’s amazing what one can find when they audit the cracks in a legacy."

Cavendish froze. The color drained from his face with such speed it left him looking like a piece of gray parchment. "You... you couldn't have. Those are private family matters."

"Privacy is a luxury you lost the moment you gambled away the deed to your grandmother’s estate, Alistair," Julian said, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that I could still hear from ten feet away. "I don't want your titles. I don't want your moldy manor in Sussex. I want the terminal. Sign the lease tonight, and the 'distasteful' debt disappears into the fog. Refuse... and I’ll make sure the Inland Revenue becomes your new best friend before the orchestra finishes the next waltz."

I walked up behind Julian then, my presence a heavy, silent threat. I didn't say a word; I just let the shadow of my frame fall over the smaller man. I let him see the "Butcher" beneath the tuxedo, the man who had burned down an empire in the West to build the one that was currently choking him in the East.

Cavendish looked at Julian, then at me. He saw the future a world where the old walls were being torn down by men who didn't care about lineage, only about the ledger.

"I’ll... I’ll have my people call yours," Cavendish whispered, his voice trembling.

"No," Julian said, pulling a slim, digital tablet from the inside pocket of his jacket. "You'll sign it now. My husband is an impatient man, and I’d hate to see him get bored at such a lovely party."

As Cavendish scrawled his name on the screen with a shaking hand, Julian looked at me and winked. The London Protocol was in effect. The gateway to Europe was open, and we hadn't even had to fire a single shot.

"Shall we?" Julian asked, tucking the tablet away.

"Lead the way," I said, taking his hand. "We have a continent to audit."