Chapter 8 - THE TAKEDOWN
Don Moretti’s eyes flared with desperation. He realized in a single second that his ambush had failed, his leverage was gone, and the four other syndicate heads had turned against him.
“Kill them!” Moretti screamed, slamming his right hand down onto the table.
Before his bodyguards could clear their holsters, the doors behind the dining room exploded inward.
Victor and six of Caleb’s elite tactical guards poured into the room, their suppressed rifles raised.
THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
Precision fire echoed through the dining hall. Moretti’s two personal bodyguards collapsed onto the marble floor before their weapons could clear their leather holsters.
Don Moretti lunged across the mahogany table toward Caleb, reaching for a hidden blade in his sleeve.
Caleb didn't draw a gun. He grabbed the heavy silver candlestick from the center of the table, spun his wheelchair with blinding speed, and brought the solid silver base down onto Moretti’s wrist with bone-crushing force.
CRACK!
Moretti shrieked in agony, dropping the blade as his shattered wrist gave way.
Elise moved instantly. She stepped behind Moretti, grabbed his collar, and slammed his face flat against the mahogany table, pinning his good arm behind his back with a smooth, professional lock she had watched Atlantic City bouncers execute a thousand times.
The four other syndicate heads stood up with their hands held high, completely disarmed and terrified by the speed and brutality of the counter-strike.
“Sit down,” Caleb ordered, his voice echoing with absolute, terrifying authority.
The four men sat down instantly.
Caleb turned his wheelchair to face the four remaining bosses, resting his forearms on the table, looking at them like an emperor reviewing his generals.
“Don Moretti’s territory is officially forfeited,” Caleb announced smoothly. “Rowan Holdings will absorb thirty percent of his waterfront assets. The remaining seventy percent will be divided equally among the four of you... provided you sign the new trade charter before midnight tonight.”
The four syndicate heads looked at each other, then looked at Moretti groaning on the table beneath Elise’s hand, and finally at Caleb.
“We sign,” Zhao said without a second’s hesitation. “We sign right now.”
Caleb nodded to Victor. “Escort our guests to the library so they can execute the agreements.”
As the four bosses were led out of the room, two guards dragged Moretti away toward the subterranean holding cells to join Julian and Jonah.
The grand dining room was suddenly quiet again, save for the hum of the chandelier overhead.
Elise stood near the table, adjusting her jacket, her breathing steadying as the adrenaline slowly drained from her veins.
Caleb turned his chair toward her.
“Pressure-plate transmitter in his palm?” Caleb asked, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “Was he really holding one?”
Elise smiled faintly, pulling a silver cigar lighter from her suit pocket.
“No,” she admitted softly. “He was just holding a vintage Dunhill lighter. But I knew if I said it was a detonator, Zhao and the others would panic and break their alliance with him.”
Caleb stared at her for three seconds, then let out a rich, booming laugh that echoed off the high ceilings—a laugh of pure, unadulterated admiration.
“Miss Parker,” Caleb said, shaking his head in wonder. “You are a deeply dangerous woman.”
“I’m just a woman who understands human nature, Mr. Rowan,” Elise replied quietly.
May you like
“Call me Caleb,” he said, extending his hand across the table toward her. “You’ve earned that much tonight.”
Elise reached out and took his hand. His grip was firm, warm, and solid—an anchor in a world made of shifting shadows.
