Chapter 6 - THE RAT IN THE TRAP"It's a forgery!" Vance shrieked, his professional composure shattering completely. He reached inside his jacket, his hand flashing toward his shoulder holster with desperate speed. "She’s a nobody! You’re going to let a maid destroy ten years of loyalty over a forged piece of paper?"
Before Vance’s fingers could wrap around the grip of his pistol, a deafening explosion tore through the parlor.
Bang.
The bullet struck the crystal water pitcher in the center of the table, shattering it into a thousand glittering shards of ice and glass.
Declan hadn't even unholstered his gun.
Behind Vance, the heavy oak doors burst open. Four of Declan’s loyal capos—led by Gable, who had traded his housekeeper’s apron for a tactical vest and an assault rifle—flooded the room, their weapons trained directly on the Commission members and Vance.
Vance froze, his hand hovering over his empty holster as he realized the trap had just snapped shut on the wrong rat.
"You didn't really think," Declan said, his voice dropping into a lethal, gravelly purr as he walked slowly around the table toward his consigliere, "that I wouldn't check my own books after my sister died, did you, Nicholas?"
Vance swallowed hard, trembling from head to toe. "Declan... boss... listen to me. The New York families made an offer—they said you were getting old, that the Gold Coast needed fresh blood—"
"You always were a terrible accountant," Declan interrupted, stopping two feet away from him.
Vance made a desperate, suicidal lunge, drawing a hidden stiletto from his sleeve and slashing toward Declan’s throat.
Sophia screamed, stepping forward, but she didn't need to.
Declan moved with the speed of a striking viper. He caught Vance’s wrist mid-air, twisting it with a sickening crunch of breaking bone. Vance shrieked in agony as the knife clattered to the floor. Declan followed up with a brutal, crushing right hook that sent Vance crashing over the back of Moretti’s leather armchair, unconscious before he even hit the Persian rug.
The room erupted into chaos, but a single wave of Declan’s hand silenced the capos and the remaining Commission members.
Moretti didn't flinch. The old patriarch calmly brushed a stray piece of glass off his sleeve, took another slow puff of his cigar, and looked up at Declan.
"Well handled, my boy," Moretti rasped, his voice smooth as oil. "The family is clean. The rat is dealt with."
"The family is clean," Declan agreed coldly, resting his hand on the back of Moretti’s chair, "starting right now. And any member of this Commission who thinks they can partner with New York behind my back will meet the same floor."
Moretti nodded slowly, acknowledging the new balance of power. The king hadn't fallen; he had just cleared the chessboard.
Declan turned around, his pale blue eyes searching the room until they found Sophia standing near the double doors, clutching her empty manila folder, her chest heaving with adrenaline.
"Get out of here, Sophia," Declan commanded quietly, walking toward her through the wreckage of the meeting.
"I finished my shift," she said, her chin held high, refusing to look intimidated by the terrifying mafia bosses staring at her. "My week of paid leave starts now, right?"
May you like
A rare, faint ghost of a smile touched Declan’s lips—a genuine smile that made him look less like a monster and more like a man.
"Take two weeks," Declan said, stopping right in front of her. He reached out, his scarred hand gently brushing a smudge of soot off her cheek. "And don't ever clean my library again."
