Chapter 3 - The Invitation at Marlowe Hotel
Headline: THE MARLOWE HOTEL TRAP: When Six Killers Line Up, and the Underboss Smiles.By the following week, the atmosphere in the Mercer syndicate had grown toxic. The Voss brothers had locked down the South Side docks, cutting off Leo’s primary smuggling routes. The tension was palpable. Every lieutenant was looking for a scapegoat, and Dom Russo had found his: the quiet woman.
“She’s a bad omen, Leo,” Dom hissed, slamming his fists onto the scarred walnut desk in the meat supplier’s office. “The Voss guys are pushing us into a corner, and you’re walking around with a ninety-pound girl as your shield! The street is laughing at us. They think you’ve lost your mind.”
“She saved my life last Thursday, Dom,” Leo said coldly.
“Any real guy would’ve chased that SUV down and killed them!” Dom roared. “She ran! She’s a coward!”
Before Leo could respond, the encrypted burner phone on his desk rang. The caller ID was blank. Leo picked it up, pressing it to his ear.
“Mercer,” a smooth, gravelly voice spoke. It was Marcus Voss, the eldest of the Voss brothers. “We’re bleeding each other dry, Leo. It’s bad for business. Let’s end it. Tomorrow night, Room 404 at the Marlowe Hotel. Just you, me, and our seconds. We draw up a new map for the docks, or we turn Chicago into a graveyard.”
Leo narrowed his eyes. “The Marlowe is neutral ground. But I don’t trust you, Marcus.”
“Bring your underboss. Bring your little lady driver too, if she hasn't run back to the schoolhouse yet,” Marcus chuckled dryly. “Let’s make peace, Leo.”
The line went dead.
Dom looked up, a strange, eager glint in his eyes. “What did he say?”
“Peace talks. Tomorrow night, Marlowe Hotel, Room 404,” Leo said, studying Dom’s expression. Dom seemed relieved—almost too relieved.
The Marlowe Hotel was an old-money establishment in the heart of the Gold Coast. It boasted soundproofed walls, private entrances, and a strict "no weapons in the lobby" policy. It was the perfect place for a truce. Or an execution.
That night, as Quinn prepared the car, Leo walked up to her in the dimly lit garage. “Tomorrow might be a trap, Quinn. If things go sideways, your job isn’t to save me. Your job is to make sure the Voss brothers don’t leave that room alive.”
Quinn was wiping down the steering wheel with a microfiber cloth. She stopped, looking at the empty leather seat next to her—the one where Tommy Vale’s blood had once pooled.
“Mr. Mercer,” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper against the hum of the garage generator. “When six men enter a room with the intention of killing, they always forget one thing.”
May you like
“What’s that?” Leo asked.
“They forget to look at the floor,” she replied. “They’re always looking at the targets. They never notice the trap until the door locks from the outside.”
