Chapter 7 - The Council of Wolves
Forty-eight hours later, the storm had passed, leaving Chicago under a clear, freezing autumn sky.
The high-rise glass penthouse of the Drake Hotel served as the private meeting hall for the High Council—the shadow assembly of seven syndicate leaders who controlled the transportation, real estate, and financial networks of the Midwest.
Inside the soundproofed boardroom, seven men in three-thousand-dollar suits sat around a massive mahogany table. At the head of the table sat Victor Draven, a thick white bandage wrapped around his left temple where Mara’s paperweight had struck him two nights before.
"Lucian has gone mad," Victor was lying smoothly to the assembled bosses, his voice oozing practiced sincerity. "He brought a civilian waitress into the Blackwood estate. He attacked my security team when we went to inspect the dock manifests. He is mentally unfit to hold the Draven seat."
The other bosses grumbled, exchanging suspicious glances.
"Where is the girl now, Victor?" asked Nikolai Markov, the gray-haired leader of the Russian syndicate. "Word on the street is that she holds the decryption keys to your old archivist’s accounts."
"The girl is a nobody," Victor dismissed with a wave of his hand. "My men are tracking her down as we speak. By midnight, she will be under my personal custody, and the Cayman accounts will be restored to the council's shared ledger."
The heavy double oak doors of the boardroom were suddenly thrown open with a loud, resounding THUD.
Lucian Draven walked into the room.
He was dressed in a flawless charcoal suit, his dark hair immaculate, his presence radiating an aura of absolute, terrifying power.
Walking beside him, wearing a tailored navy wool dress that accented her sharp posture and dark hair, was Mara Vale.
And trotting between them, his iron claws clicking loudly against the polished marble floor, was Bishop.
The seven syndicate bosses sat frozen in absolute shock.
Victor slammed his hands on the table, standing up so fast his leather chair slid backward into the glass window. "What is the meaning of this?! Security!"
"Your security is currently being processed by the State Police in the lobby, Victor," Lucian said calmly, walking to the foot of the table.
Mara stepped forward, holding a sleek black leather folder in her hands. She didn't look like a waitress. She didn't look small, or poor, or afraid. She held her head high, her hazel eyes locked onto Victor with pure, unyielding hatred.
"Fourteen hours ago," Mara said, her clear, crisp voice echoing through the silent boardroom, "the contents of my sister Elena Vale's master archive were uploaded to secure servers at the Department of Justice, the Internal Revenue Service, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
The room inhaled in collective horror.
"What did you do, you little bitch?!" Victor roared, reaching toward his armpit holster.
Before his hand could even touch his jacket, Bishop let out a roaring, demonic bark and lunged onto the mahogany table, skidding across the polished wood and planting his massive front paws inches from Victor’s face, his jaws snapping shut with the sound of a bear trap.
Victor froze, paralyzed with terror, his hand hovering near his coat.
"Sit down, Victor," Lucian commanded softly.
Victor slowly sank back into his chair, sweating profusely.
Mara opened her leather folder, pulling out eight identical bound white dossiers, and slid them down the length of the mahogany table toward the seven syndicate bosses.
"Those dossiers contain the full transaction logs from Victor's private offshore accounts," Mara explained calmly. "For seven years, Victor has been skimming twelve percent off every shipment passing through your docks. He used that money to fund a private federal immunity contract that would have put every man in this room in a federal penitentiary by the end of this month."
Nikolai Markov opened his dossier, his dark eyes scanning the bank statements, the wire transfers, and the signed federal immunity agreements bearing Victor’s signature.
Markov’s face turned from pale white to blood red. He looked up at Victor with pure, lethal promise.
"You rat," Markov spat in Russian, slamming his heavy fist on the table. "You sold us to the feds!"
"It's a lie!" Victor shrieked, his voice cracking with desperation. "The girl fabricated those documents! She's working with Lucian to take over the entire council!"
"The documents bear your biometric signature, Victor," Lucian said quietly, leaning over the table. "And the federal agents waiting downstairs have an arrest warrant with your name on it. But they aren't going to get you."
Lucian reached into his coat pocket and tossed a single, silver-plated snub-nosed revolver onto the table in front of his uncle.
"You have two choices, Victor," Lucian whispered, his voice carrying the finality of an executioner's blade. "You can walk out those doors into the arms of the federal marshals, where Markov’s men inside the penitentiary will tear you apart piece by piece."
Lucian leaned closer, his storm-gray eyes burning into Victor’s soul.
"Or you can use that gun right now, and end this like a Draven."
The boardroom fell into dead silence. The seven syndicate bosses stood up one by one, picking up their dossiers, turning their backs on Victor, and bowing their heads to Lucian in absolute, silent acknowledgment of his ascension.
Victor stared at the gun on the table. His hand trembled violently. He looked at Lucian, then at Mara, and finally at Bishop, who stood on the table above him, his dark eyes watching his every move with silent, predatory anticipation.
"You win, boy," Victor whispered, his voice broken and hollow.
May you like
Mara turned her back on Victor, taking Lucian’s hand in hers.
Together, flanked by Bishop, they walked out of the boardroom into the bright autumn sunshine, leaving the dark ghost of the past behind them forever.
