Chapter 8 - The Traitor UnmaskedOutside the panic room, the gunfire had subsided into a tense, deadly silence, broken only by the occasional distant groan of a wounded mercenary and the heavy tread of tactical boots.
Dominic Moretti stepped over the body of a fallen gunman in the hallway, his Glock held ready, the magazine half-empty. He checked the corner, his eyes scanning the shadows.
Then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a secure text message from Marcus Vance: "Boss, we secured the perimeter. Four of Romano's men neutralized, two captured in the courtyard. But... we found something on the lead mercenary’s comms log. An internal ping. Someone inside the estate gave them the security override codes to the west wing service elevator."
Dominic stopped dead in his tracks. A cold, heavy realization settled into his gut.
The security codes to the service elevator were restricted to only three people: Mrs. Costa, Marcus Vance... and Dominic’s long-time chief of operations and legal counsel, Victor Vance, Marcus’s cousin.
Footnotes of betrayal.
Dominic turned and walked slowly back toward the grand study on the third floor.
As he pushed open the heavy oak doors, he found Victor standing by the mahogany desk. Victor’s suit was immaculate, but his hands were trembling slightly as he held a small silver flash drive between his thumb and forefinger.
"Looking for this, Dominic?" Victor asked, his voice disturbingly calm, though a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.
Dominic didn't raise his gun. He simply stood in the doorway, blocking any possible exit, his dark eyes boring into Victor’s soul.
"You," Dominic said quietly. "For six years, you sat at my right hand. You managed the legal shielding, you handled the port acquisitions."
"And for six years, I watched you build an empire while taking a fraction of what we were truly worth," Victor sneered, his mask of loyalty finally slipping away to reveal the bitter, greedy monster underneath. "Salvatore Romano offered fifty percent of the Midwestern shipping lanes if I handed over the Moretti ledgers—and James Bennett’s little insurance policy."
"James Bennett," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a deadly register. "You killed him."
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"He was poking his nose where it didn't belong," Victor spat, taking a step backward toward the balcony doors. "Just like his wife is now. And just like you are, Dominic. You went soft. A maid and a brat walked into your ballroom, and you threw away a billion-dollar alliance just to play white knight."
Victor suddenly whipped a compact pistol out from his jacket, leveling it straight at Dominic’s chest. "I'm sorry, Boss. But dynasties fall. And I'm taking over the throne."
