Chapter 5 - THE BETRAYAL IN THE STUDY
The heavy oak doors of the master study were splintered down the center when Dominic kicked them open.
The room was a disaster zone. The mahogany desk had been shoved aside. Papers, bank statements, and shipping manifests were scattered across the Persian rug like autumn leaves.
The safe behind the desk—the one containing the black ledger, the offshore account numbers, and the digital backups of every syndicate operation—stood wide open, its heavy steel door hanging off its reinforced hinges.
And sitting in the leather armchair behind the desk, smoking a mild cigar as if he were waiting for a late train, was Vincent Hale.
Beside him stood two armed mercenaries holding silenced submachine guns.
Dominic stopped in the doorway. He didn't raise his gun. He simply stood there, his massive frame blocking the entrance, his dark gray eyes locked onto his most trusted lieutenant with a terrifying, frozen calm.
“Vincent,” Dominic said softly. The name carried the weight of a falling anvil.
Vincent didn't flinch. He blew a thin ring of gray smoke toward the ceiling, watching it dissolve into the amber light of the desk lamp. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp, cold, and entirely devoid of remorse.
“It’s a good book, Dom,” Vincent said, tapping the black leather ledger resting on the desk before him. “Lots of names. Lots of numbers. Turns out Roland Blackwood pays top dollar for a complete organizational chart of the Chicago ports.”
“Sixteen years, Vincent,” Dominic said, taking a slow step into the room. “Sixteen years I kept you at my right hand. I gave you my mother’s house. I put your sister’s kids through college.”
“And you treated me like an employee,” Vincent snapped, his calm facade cracking just enough to let a bitter, venomous hatred spill through. “Always the boss. Always the king on his throne while the rest of us bleed in the alleys. Thomas Vance saw the writing on the wall two years ago. That’s why we set up the ambush at the rail yard. Only problem was, Thomas missed Mateo. And you survived.”
Evelyn slipped into the room behind Dominic, her hand resting near her pocket where she had tucked a heavy steel letter opener she grabbed from the desk outside.
“You tried to kill your own brothers-in-arms,” Evelyn said, her voice cutting through the smoke. “You let Thomas fake his death, and you blamed the rivals so you could take over the syndicate from the inside.”
Vincent turned his cold, calculating gaze toward her. “Ah. The chubby little housekeeper turned nurse. Thomas told me someone was poking around the medical wing. We should have dealt with you the day you arrived, Ms. Parker.”
“You won't be dealing with anyone after tonight, Vincent,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into that lethal register that made the room temperature feel like it had plunged below freezing.
“I wouldn't move if I were you, Dom,” Vincent smiled, gesturing with his cigar toward the two mercenaries. Both men raised their submachine guns, training the barrels directly at Dominic’s chest. “You’re fast, but you aren't bulletproof. Not at five feet.”
Vincent stood up, sliding the black ledger into a waterproof tactical pouch. “I’ve got a helicopter waiting on the roof of the warehouse district. By morning, I’ll be in Zurich. You and your little nurse can explain to the Commission why the Moretti empire is broke and burning to the ground.”
He turned toward the private balcony doors that led out to the snowy terrace. “Goodbye, Dom. It’s been—”
“VINCENT!”
The shout didn't come from Dominic.
It came from the hallway behind them.
May you like
Vincent stopped, frowning, turning his head back toward the open doorway.
Stepping into the study, leaning heavily on a pair of aluminum forearm crutches, his face pale and strained with sweat, but his eyes burning with an ungodly, terrifying fury, was Mateo Moretti.
