The silence following John's words was absolute. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket that covered the table, the crystal, and the terrified men who remembered the Gilded Hall. Even Vargo, usually loud and stupid with drink, was staring at his plate, pale and sweating.
Then, a sound cut through the dread.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
It was a slow, mocking applause.
Kevin flinched. He turned his head, following the noise to the far side of the room.
Marco Reyes was leaning back in his chair, his feet crossed at the ankles, resting comfortably on the carpet. He was the head of the rising Spanish syndicate, new money, violent borders, and loud influence. He didn't look like the other Dons. He wasn't wearing a structured suit or a tie. He wore a silk shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, gold chains glinting against tanned skin, and a smile that was all teeth and arrogance.
He looked alive. In a room full of statues and ghosts, Marco was vibrating with kinetic energy.
"Bravo," Marco said, his voice rich and melodic. He picked up a bottle of tequila from the center of his table and poured a shot, not bothering to look at the glass. "Truly. A beautiful story, John. Grimm's Fairy Tales couldn't have written it better."
The room's attention shifted from the Corvini ghost to the living Spaniard.
Marco stood up. He wasn't massive like Vargo or looming like John. He was lean, wiry, moving with the fluid, predatory grace of a matador entering the ring. He held his glass up to the light, inspecting the amber liquid.
"We are all very impressed," Marco continued, walking slowly toward the Corvini table. He stopped a few feet away, ignoring the boundary that John's silence usually enforced. "A boy with a pen. A room of dead men. A forest fire."
He took a sip of the tequila, savoring it.
"But that was ten years ago, no?" Marco asked. He looked at Vargo, then at the Russians. "Ten years is a long time in this city. Empires rise. Empires fall. Concrete cracks."
Kevin gripped the arms of his chair. He watched Marco with a mix of terror and a sickening, jealous awe. Marco wasn't afraid. He was standing in the blast radius of John Corvini, and he was treating it like a cocktail party.
Marco turned his gaze to John.
"You talk about your brother like he is a god," Marco said, his smile sharpening. "Like he is a force of nature that we should all pray to avoid. But I don't see a god, John. I see an empty chair."
He gestured to the leather seat beside Kevin with his glass.
"I see a family that hides behind myths because the reality is getting... thin."
John didn't move. He didn't blink. He watched Marco with the same mild, detached curiosity he would show a termite eating a floorboard.
Marco didn't care. He fed on the attention. He turned to the room, addressing the other crime lords, spreading his arms wide.
"You listen to him, and you shake," Marco mocked, laughing softly. "Vargo is sweating through his shirt. Volkov looks like he needs a priest. Why? Because of a story? Because of a man who isn't even allowed in the building?"
Marco walked back to his own table. He picked up a silver case and pulled out a thin, dark cigarillo.
"I hear the stories, too," Marco said, placing the cigarillo between his lips. "They say James Corvini was fast. They say he was cruel. They say he was an artist of death."
He struck a match against the sole of his shoe. The flare was sudden and bright, a burst of yellow phosphorus in the dim room.
Marco lit the cigarillo, inhaling deep, letting the smoke curl from his nose.
"They call me the Spanish James," Marco said. The claim was audacious, bordering on sacrilege in this company. "Because I don't wait for permission. Because I don't negotiate. Because when I want a room cleared, I don't use a pen. I use a chainsaw."
He walked back toward John, stopping just outside striking distance. He blew a stream of grey smoke toward the Corvini table. It drifted over the orchids, a visible insult.
"You are holding onto a ghost, John," Marco said softly. "And ghosts don't hold territory. Men do."
Kevin looked at his father. John's expression hadn't changed. He was still the historian, watching history repeat itself. But there was something else in his eyes now, a cold, final assessment. He had just categorized Marco. Not as a rival. But as a corpse that hadn't fallen yet.
Marco misread the silence as submission. He grinned, turning his back on the Corvini, facing the room with his arms spread wide, the lit cigarillo burning between his fingers like a tiny star.
"You are all afraid of a ghost," Marco declared, his voice ringing off the velvet walls. "A story told to scare children. I am not a ghost. I am here."
He held up the cigarillo, the ember glowing red hot.
"And I am not afraid of lighting a match."
The Summit ended not with a handshake, but with the smoke. Marco walked out first, his entourage trailing him, leaving a wake of arrogance and expensive cologne. The other families hurried to follow, desperate to escape the tension, leaving John and Kevin alone at their table.
John finally moved. He picked up his water glass and took a slow, measured sip.
"Kevin," John said quietly.
"Yes, father?" Kevin whispered, his voice trembling.
"Tell Asuma to open a new page in the ledger," John said. He looked at the empty chair, then at the door where Marco had exited. "We have a volunteer."