Chapter 4 - The Ghost of the BoathouseThe Lake Michigan boathouse smelled of damp timber, old engine oil, and lake water. Outside, the waves crashed violently against the concrete pylons, drowning out any sound that might betray our location.
Vance set up a secure tactical terminal on a rusted workbench, its green screen casting an eerie glow across Gabriel’s sharp features.
"The local capos are already gathering at the Palmer House for tomorrow's pre-gala briefing," Vance reported, tapping away at the keyboard. "Daniel Shaw has been telling them that you're unstable, Boss—that your grief over Clara's supposed betrayal caused you to lose control of the territory. He's calling a vote of no confidence to strip you of your title."
Gabriel didn't look up from cleaning his Glock. "Let him call it. A dog always barks loudest right before it's put down."
He walked over to where I sat wrapped in a heavy wool blanket on an old cot. He knelt down, holding a cup of warm tea he had managed to heat on a small portable stove.
"Drink this," he murmured softly. "You need your strength."
I took the cup, my fingers brushing against his calloused palms. "You're planning to walk right into that ballroom tomorrow with me by your side, aren't you?"
"It's the only way," Gabriel admitted, his gaze steady. "If I show up alone, Daniel will spin a story about how I hunted you down and murdered you in cold blood. But if you walk in beside me—alive, pregnant, and wearing the truth for everyone to see—his entire foundation crumbles."
"It's suicide if his men are waiting for us," I reminded him.
"They won't be expecting you to be alive," Gabriel said, a dangerous edge returning to his voice. "And they certainly won't expect my loyalists inside the security detail to switch sides the moment I give the order."
Suddenly, the tactical terminal beeped loudly. Vance cursed under his breath.
"Boss, we've got a security breach on the perimeter sensors. Someone's pinged our frequency."
Gabriel stood up in a single fluid motion, grabbing his rifle from the workbench. "How many?"
"Just one signal," Vance said, his fingers flying across the keys. "Wait... it's not an intruder. It's an incoming encrypted feed from inside Daniel's office at the main headquarters."
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"Put it on the main monitor," Gabriel ordered.
The screen flickered, and a grainy video feed appeared. It showed Daniel Shaw sitting at Gabriel’s mahogany desk, pouring himself a glass of expensive bourbon. Standing opposite him was a man whose face made my blood run cold—Connor Bell.
