Unmoved, Connors unfolded the paper.
“Mr. Vitali,” he said in a businesslike voice, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Stefano Barelli.”
It was dead silent around the table.
“What the hell?” Vitali’s face turned a darker red.
His guests avoided looking directly at their host. Spooner and Khazaeli walked around the table and stood behind him.
“US Marshals Service.” Spooner held his badge under Vitali’s nose. “Would you stand up please?”
Vitali gesticulated as if chasing away an insect, but he stood up.
“How dare you?” he exclaimed. “This is absolutely ridiculous!”
His face alternated between red and pale, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“Come with me, Mr. Vitali.” Connors said coldly. “You’re under arrest.”
Sergio Vitali turned toward his guests.
“This is a regrettable misunderstanding that will be cleared up very quickly.”
Spooner took advantage of the opportunity and clicked the handcuffs around Vitali’s wrists, causing him to turn around angrily.
“Come on, mister,” he said, “let’s go.”
“You have the right to remain silent…” Deputy Khazaeli started with the usual admonition, but Vitali interrupted him angrily.
“Save your breath,” he snapped. “I want to speak to my lawyer immediately!”
In the meantime, the news had gone around that something unusual was happening at the host’s table. A pin drop could have been heard in the gigantic ballroom.
“This will have consequences for you!” Sergio Vitali hissed as Spooner led him past Connors. The US attorney simply shrugged his shoulders. He was about to turn away, when Gordon Engels held him back.
“Wait a moment,” Engels said. “I need to take care of something else.”
Connors looked at Engels in astonishment as he headed toward Tate Jenkins.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Gordon Engels said, “you are also under arrest. You’re charged as an accessory to the murder of David Zuckerman and with aiding and abetting organized crime.”
The deputy director of the FBI stood up without saying a word. His expressionless face showed that he understood. They had his number. Connors stared at Gordon Engels open-mouthed.
“Deputy Khazaeli,” the US attorney general said to his officer, “arrest this man and read him his rights.”
“Gordon,” Connors murmured, “I don’t quite understand.”
“We have suspected Jenkins for quite a while,” Engels replied quietly. “Two nights ago, we tapped a phone conversation between Jenkins and Vitali. That was the final proof we needed. Jenkins has been Vitali’s man for years.”
“I can’t believe it.” Connors shook his head in disbelief. “Nick’s really been right all along.”
“Yes,” Engels replied, “Kostidis had been right all these years. But his hard luck was that he lacked hard evidence.”
The guests of the VitalAid Foundation’s charity ball watched in shock as their host and his guest were led though the large hall in handcuffs. No one moved from their seat, and the room remained dead silent until the men walked out to the foyer. Only then did people awake from their shock, and all hell broke loose.
Connors could hardly suppress a smile. His triumph was complete. Of course, he could have made his arrest more discreetly, but he had very deliberately created this humiliating scene for Vitali. The US attorney only regretted that Nick couldn’t witness Sergio Vitali’s arrest in the public eye.
Massimo Vitali suddenly appeared in the foyer. “What’s going on here?” he exclaimed when he saw his father and Jenkins in handcuffs.
“Who are you?” Lloyd Connors asked.
“I’m Massimo Vitali.”
“We arrested your father,” the US attorney said. “You should get him a lawyer as soon as possible.”
Vitali’s eyes flashed angrily at Connors; he was furious to be in this very unflattering situation. Deputy Spooner pushed him along.
“Papa!” Massimo exclaimed in agitation. “What should I do?”
“Call Bruyner!” his father shouted. “And…”
And? Nelson wasn’t there anymore, and Judge Whitewater was also gone. Tate Jenkins, his valuable connection at the FBI, walked handcuffed behind him, and even John de Lancie didn’t seem to be in his post anymore. The seriousness of his situation slowly dawned upon Sergio. He had a feeling that he wouldn’t get away so easily this time.
“Papa!” Massimo’s voice sounded desperate.
“Come on,” Deputy Spooner urged, “go, go!”
Massimo stared after them helplessly. Sergio’s security personnel and the hotel staff were also paralyzed, and the crowd of guests curiously gathering around the ballroom’s doors whispered in excitement.
“Is that really necessary?” Sergio Vitali protested as Spooner directed him toward the main entrance. “Can’t we at least exit through the back?”
“Oh no, sir. You’ll get the full program.” Spooner grinned with satisfaction. “Like a man of your status deserves.”
Vitali put on a grim smile and straightened his shoulders. He kept a stony face in the flurry of flashes, showing his contempt for the reporters, the TV cameras, and the gawking crowd. Royce Shepard opened the back door of the limousine, and Spooner pushed Vitali into the backseat.
“Don’t touch me!” Vitali snapped. “I’ll make sure that you’re writing parking tickets in the future!”
“I’m looking forward to that,” Spooner replied calmly. He joined Vitali in the backseat, while Connors gave a brief statement to the agitated reporters. Sergio Vitali’s face was frozen solid. As the reporters knocked against the window to get a good shot of him, he didn’t turn his gaze once. Lloyd Connors sat in the front seat as the car drove off with a flashing red light and wailing siren. Gordon Engels and Tate Jenkins followed in a second car, and there was a full convoy behind them.
Connors exhaled a deep sigh of relief. He’d done it! He had doubted the success of this operation until the very last second, but he’d finally accomplished what Nick Kostidis had tried for so many years: he had arrested Sergio Vitali—the secret godfather of New York City. The evidence was overwhelming, and the prosecution’s key witness was alive. The message that di Varese and Bacchiocchi had also been arrested came over the radio. Vitali didn’t react at all.
“You’re getting a big kick out of this, aren’t you?” he said after a while in a disdainful tone. “That pathetic bastard will piss his pants in joy once he hears about it.”
“Who are you talking about?” Connors asked coolly.
“That damned son of a bitch Kostidis.” There was a glow of murderous rage in Vitali’s eyes. “I likely owe this entire spectacle to him!”
“You’ve been arrested,” Lloyd Connors said as he turned around, “because you killed at least one person and brutally abused Ms. Alex Sontheim.”
“That’s bullshit,” Vitali said, shaking his head. “Where are you taking me? I have a thousand guests, and you’ve got nothing better to do than to arrest me because of a little whore who stole from me and lied to me! I’ll complain to the attorney general himself about this!”
“Complain to whomever you want.” The smile vanished from Connors’s face. He thought about Alex’s disfigured face. He thought about Mary and Christopher Kostidis, who had to die because Nick stood in Sergio Vitali’s way. He thought about David Zuckerman and Zachary St. John, both sacrificed by Vitali after they’d outlived their usefulness and possibly posed a threat to him. He thought about the lawyer in Los Angeles who had been murdered in such a brutal way, and the many other people who’d died because this man had ordered it.