Chapter 6 - THE GALA AT VANCE ESTATE
The Vance Estate sat on a sprawling cliffside overlooking Lake Michigan, a massive limestone mansion blazing with light and arrogance.
Dozens of luxury vehicles lined the circular driveway, and men in tailored tuxedos escorted women in glittering evening gowns up the sweeping marble steps. It was a gathering of Chicago’s elite—the politicians, the judges, and the corporate executives who had quietly shifted their allegiances to Arthur Vance the moment they smelled the blood in the water.
From the treeline a half-mile away, hidden in the shadows of an old service road, three black unmarked vans sat with their engines idling silently.
Inside the command van, the air was thick with tension. Dad stood over a glowing tactical map of the estate, surrounded by six of his top syndicate operatives, all dressed in immaculate, custom-tailored tuxedos rather than their usual tactical gear.
I sat in my wheelchair near the monitor screens, dressed in a sleek black evening gown that covered the heavy casts on my legs. My hair, uneven and jagged from Melissa's scissors, had been styled by a professional into a sharp, asymmetrical bob that made me look less like a victim and more like a woman going to war.
"Arthur has forty private security contractors patrolling the perimeter," Dad said, tapping a red dot on the screen. "They're heavily armed, but they're expecting a frontal assault. They aren't expecting us to walk right through the front door."
"How are we getting past the guest list?" asked Marcus, Dad's lead operative, adjusting the cuff of his tuxedo.
Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out six heavy, gold-embossed invitations.
"I bought a federal judge this morning," Dad said simply. "He decided he’d rather retire to Florida than attend Arthur's party. We have his plus-fives."
Dad turned to me, his expression softening slightly. "Emily, you don't have to go inside. The team can locate Arthur, secure the watch, and extract the encryption key."
"I have to go, Dad," I replied firmly, adjusting the shawl over my shoulders. "Brandon humiliated me in front of my peers. Arthur Vance stole the companies I built with my own hands. I am not hiding in a van while you fight my battles."
Dad studied my face for a long moment, seeing the unyielding determination in my eyes. He nodded slowly, a fierce pride tightening his jaw.
"Alright," Dad said. "But you stay within an arm's length of Marcus at all times. If the shooting starts, he gets you out, regardless of whether we have the watch or not."
"Understood."
Ten minutes later, our convoy pulled up to the front gates of the Vance Estate.
The security guards inspected our forged invitations, sweeping the vans with mirrors and flashlights. Satisfied, they waved us through. We parked near the grand entrance, and Marcus helped lower my wheelchair down the automated ramp.
Dad walked beside me, his silver hair brushed back, his tuxedo fitting his broad shoulders perfectly. He looked like an aristocratic king returning to claim his throne.
We entered the grand ballroom.
The room was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and polite, murmuring conversation. A string quartet played softly in the corner. It looked exactly like the anniversary dinner Brandon had orchestrated, only magnified a hundred times in scale and wealth.
As we rolled through the center of the room, the conversation nearest us began to die down.
People turned to look.
A few gasps rippled through the crowd as they recognized my father. Whispers spread like wildfire across the ballroom floor. The ghost of the Yates Syndicate had just walked into the lion's den.
At the far end of the room, standing near a towering ice sculpture and surrounded by laughing politicians, was Arthur Vance.
He was in his late sixties, with slicked-back dark hair, a sharp goatee, and a perfectly tailored midnight-blue tuxedo. He held a glass of scotch in one hand, radiating smug superiority.
Arthur noticed the silence spreading through the room. He turned, his smile freezing as his eyes locked onto my father.
Dad didn't stop. He pushed my wheelchair straight through the parting sea of guests, stopping just ten feet away from Arthur.
"Abraham," Arthur said, recovering his composure with a slick, practiced smile. He raised his glass slightly. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you here. I heard you were busy dealing with some... unfortunate legal restructuring regarding your daughter's assets."
"I'm not here for the champagne, Arthur," Dad said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the silent ballroom. "I'm here for my daughter's companies."
Arthur laughed—a dry, dismissive sound. "Your daughter signed those companies away legally, Abraham. The digital escrow is locked. By midnight tonight, the transfer is permanent, and the Yates Syndicate officially answers to my board of directors. There is absolutely nothing you can do to stop it."
"Is that right?" Dad asked, taking a slow step forward.
"Yes, it is," Arthur sneered, glancing down at me in the wheelchair. "I see Brandon left a mark, Emily. It's a shame. If you had just trusted your husband, things could have been much more comfortable for you."
My blood boiled, but I kept my face entirely impassive. I leaned slightly forward in my chair.
"Brandon didn't leave a mark, Arthur," I said coldly. "He left a confession. He's currently sitting in a basement under Pier 42, crying about how you promised him a seat on the board."
Arthur's smile vanished. The politicians standing near him took a cautious step backward, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
"Brandon is a fool," Arthur said dismissively, though his eyes darted nervously toward his security detail standing near the exits. "Whatever he told you means nothing. You can't touch the escrow account without the physical encryption key."
"I know," Dad said.
Before Arthur could react, Dad moved with a terrifying, explosive speed that defied his sixty-eight years.
He lunged forward, grabbing Arthur by the lapels of his midnight-blue tuxedo and slamming him backward against the massive ice sculpture. The heavy ice cracked loudly, sending shards skittering across the marble floor.
Arthur gasped, dropping his scotch glass as Dad's forearm pressed brutally against his throat.
Four of Arthur's security guards reached for their concealed weapons, but Marcus and the other five syndicate operatives instantly drew their suppressed pistols, locking them onto the guards' heads before they could even unholster their guns.
The ballroom erupted into panicked screams. Guests scrambled toward the walls, diving behind tables and pillars.
"Give me the watch, Arthur," Dad growled, his face inches from his former partner's.
Arthur choked, struggling against my father's grip. "You're... you're dead, Abraham! If you kill me here, you'll spend the rest of your life in federal prison!"
"I don't need to kill you," Dad said, reaching into Arthur's tuxedo pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a heavy silver pocket watch—an exact replica of the one Dad carried, save for the Vance family crest engraved on the cover.
Dad popped the watch open. Inside, tucked neatly beside the ticking gears, was a tiny black flash drive.
"Thank you," Dad said softly.
He released Arthur, letting the older man collapse coughing onto the wet marble floor.
Dad turned back to me, holding up the flash drive. A triumphant smile touched his lips.
"We have it," Dad said. "Marcus, get Emily to the van."
But as Marcus grabbed the handles of my wheelchair to turn me around, a sharp, echoing gunshot rang out over the screaming crowd.
One of the crystal chandeliers above us exploded in a shower of sparks and glass.
I looked back.
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Standing on the sweeping staircase overlooking the ballroom, holding a smoking assault rifle and looking completely unhinged, was Sterling—Arthur’s corporate attorney.
"Nobody is leaving this room with that drive!" Sterling screamed, aiming the rifle directly at my father's chest.
