Chapter 7 - SHIFTING TIDES
The safe house was a high-rise penthouse located in the heart of downtown Chicago, secured behind triple-encrypted security doors and reinforced glass windows.
For the next three days, the penthouse became the nerve center of a quiet, brutal war.
Victor, who had survived the estate attack by hiding in the outer gardens, arrived on the second night alongside four heavily armed loyalists. They brought reports of the damage: the mansion’s main floor had been severely burned, but the Rossy family was currently celebrating what they believed to be the complete elimination of Declan Graham.
“They think you’re dead, boss,” Victor reported, standing nervously before Declan’s desk in the penthouse study. “They’re already trying to take over the distribution routes at the docks.”
Declan sat in a sleek new motorized chair, his face dark and calculating.
“Let them think I’m dead for two more days,” Declan commanded coldly. “Let them gather all their capos at the downtown club to celebrate. We will strike them all at once.”
Victor nodded eagerly, then hesitated, his eyes wandering toward the adjoining kitchen where Narin was quietly preparing coffee.
“Boss...” Victor whispered, leaning closer. “What about her? She’s seen everything. She knows about the safe house, the routes, the plan. Do you want me to... relocate her?”
Declan’s hand hit the armrest with a sharp, terrifying crack.
“If you so much as lay a finger on Narin,” Declan said, his voice dropping to a register so cold it made Victor’s blood freeze, “I will throw you off this balcony myself. Is that clear?”
Victor’s face turned instantly pale. “Yes, boss. Crystal clear.”
“She stays,” Declan added firmly. “She goes wherever I go.”
In the kitchen, Narin poured two cups of black coffee, having heard every single word of their conversation.
She brought a cup into the study, setting it down gently on the edge of Declan’s desk.
As Victor quickly bowed his head and exited the room, Declan looked up at Narin, his dark eyes studying her face.
“You don't look scared,” he noted softly.
“I’ve seen you shoot a man through an oak door, Mr. Graham,” Narin replied, leaning against the edge of the desk. “Victor doesn't intimidate me.”
Declan chuckled, taking a slow sip of the hot coffee. “You should be terrified of me, Narin. Most people in this city are.”
Narin met his gaze steadily. “Fear is expensive. I don't have the energy for it.”
Declan looked at her for a long, quiet moment. Slowly, he reached into his inner breast pocket, withdrew a leather checkbook, and wrote out a check with an elegant fountain pen.
He slid the paper across the mahogany desk toward her.
Narin picked it up.
May you like
Written on the line was not four thousand dollars.
It was fifty thousand dollars.
