Chapter 13 - The Traitor's Kiss
Z
The betrayal stung, but it didn't surprise me. In the underworld, loyalty was a commodity rented by the hour, usually paid for in blood or cash. Marcus had been one of Reed’s oldest lieutenants, a man who had bled for the Callaway empire long before I ever stepped foot in it. But pride and misogyny were dangerous poisons. He couldn't stomach taking orders from a former waitress, and he had sold my daughter to the Russians to reclaim his bruised ego.
We didn't act immediately. Panic breeds mistakes. Instead, I spent the next three days feeding Marcus false information, isolating his loyalists, and quietly shifting our assets to ensure he had no access to the syndicate’s capital. We needed to execute him in a way that sent a terrifying message to the rest of the organization: treason would be met with apocalyptic consequences.
I arranged a private dinner for the inner council at the penthouse. Just the five highest-ranking lieutenants, Reed, and myself. The dining room was a masterpiece of intimidation, overlooking the glittering Chicago skyline, the table set with crystal and silver. Ava was safely hidden away in the panic room three floors down, guarded by mercenaries I had vetted personally.
Marcus arrived looking confident, wearing a tailored suit, a Rolex gleaming on his thick wrist. He smiled at me, a condescending, greasy smirk that made my skin crawl. He thought he had won. He thought the Russians were coming, and he would soon be sitting in Reed’s chair.
"A lovely evening, Sarah," Marcus said, taking his seat to my right. "Though I must admit, I'm surprised we're having dinner while the city is still on lockdown. We should be on the streets, hitting the Volkov safe houses."
"Strategy requires patience, Marcus," I replied, pouring him a glass of vintage red wine. I took my seat at the head of the table, opposite Reed. The other lieutenants watched us closely, sensing the electric tension in the room. "Sometimes, the most dangerous enemies aren't the ones hiding in safe houses. Sometimes, they are sitting at your own dinner table."
The room went dead silent. The clinking of silverware stopped. Marcus paused, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. His eyes darted to Reed, who sat perfectly still, his hands resting on the table, staring at Marcus with hollow, dead eyes.
"I don't know what you mean," Marcus said, his voice tightening. He slowly lowered the glass.
"I mean," I said, leaning forward, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "that Grigori was very talkative before he died. He told us exactly how the museum security was bypassed. He told us about the encrypted emails. He told us about the deal you made with Alexei Volkov."
Marcus didn't try to deny it. The survival instinct kicked in. He realized he was trapped in a room with ghosts, and the polite dinner was a designated execution chamber. With shocking speed for a man his size, Marcus kicked his chair back and drew a heavy revolver from his shoulder holster, aiming it directly at my chest.
"You bitch," Marcus snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "You ruined this family! You and that bastard child! Reed is weak for letting you run things. I was saving the syndicate!"
Before anyone else could react, before Reed could even draw his weapon, I acted. I hadn't come to dinner unarmed. The silver platter in front of me wasn't holding a roast; it was hiding a suppressed 9mm pistol. I grabbed it, aimed through the crystal wine glasses, and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.
The suppressed shots were quiet, fatal thwips. The first bullet shattered Marcus's wine glass. The second caught him in the throat. The third struck him directly between the eyes.
His massive body collapsed backward, crashing into the priceless art on the wall before hitting the hardwood floor with a sickening thud. Blood pooled rapidly, soaking into his expensive suit. The remaining lieutenants jumped from their seats, weapons drawn, chaos erupting in the dining room.
"Sit down!" Reed roared, his voice shaking the glass windows. He stood up, his own gun drawn, sweeping the room. "The traitor is dead! Anyone else who wants to question Sarah's authority can join him on the floor!"
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The men slowly, hesitantly, lowered their weapons and returned to their seats, staring in horror at Marcus’s body. I remained seated, my hand still holding the smoking gun, my emerald dress perfectly pristine. I took a slow sip of my wine, locking eyes with each of the surviving men.
"Clear the body," I commanded, my voice devoid of any tremor. "And send his head to Moscow in a lockbox. Let Alexei Volkov know that the Queen of Chicago does not negotiate with terrorists."
