Chapter 2 - The Empty Chair in the East WingThe East Wing of the Cole mansion smelled faintly of old leather, gun oil, and expensive Scotch—specifically the 25-year-old Macallan that Austin only opened when closing a major port deal.
Marcus Delaney was sitting in the high-backed wing chair by the unlit fireplace.
He wasn’t drinking. He was cleaning the slide of a Glock 19 with a white lint-free cloth, moving with the slow, methodical precision of a watchmaker. The overhead brass lamp cast a harsh yellow glow over his hands, and there, stark and unmistakable against the pale skin of his right wrist, was the jagged, silvery line of an old scar from a razor blade fight in Charlestown back in 2011.
Marcus didn't look up when the heavy oak door clicked shut behind Austin.
“Rosa gave the kid hot chocolate, huh?” Marcus’s voice was conversational, almost casual. “She always was a soft touch for strays. Reminds me of that stray you picked up in Vermont six years ago.”
Austin didn’t draw his weapon yet. He wanted to see the eyes of the man who had held his mother’s coffin.
“You left your key on the sideboard in the armory, Marcus,” Austin said, his tone chillingly level. “Or did you drop it when you cleared out Elena Reed’s safe house in Dorchester three nights ago?”
Marcus stopped wiping the slide. He slowly lowered the gun to his lap, tilted his head, and looked up. There was no panic on his face. Only a tired, cynical smile that made Austin’s stomach churn.
“Dorchester? Come on, Austin. You think I’m running wet work for local hoodlums?”
“The Bullards were wiped out in federal court, but their logistics network was bought up by a holding company tied to State Senator Vance,” Austin walked forward, his boots clicking rhythmically against the Persian rug. “Vance needs cash for his gubernatorial run. Elena Reed kept the master ledgers of every bribe paid to every judge and senator from here to Washington. She hid them where nobody would ever look.”
“Oh?” Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Where’s that?”
“Inside the lining of a seven-year-old girl’s winter coat,” Austin said softly.
Marcus let out a low, dry chuckle. He stood up slowly, keeping his hands well away from his lap, though his fingers hovered close to the Glock.
“Smart kid. Smart mother. But Elena was a fool to run back to Boston. We offered her a clean break if she handed over the drives three years ago. She chose to play hide-and-seek in the sticks. And you, Austin... you played the noble guardian, walked away, and left her twisting in the wind because you were too proud to look back.”
“You were my brother, Marcus,” Austin murmured, closing the distance to six feet.
“No, Austin. I was your warden,” Marcus snapped, his smile vanishing, replaced by a sudden, venomous flash of bitter resentment. “You think you’re a king? You’re just a spoiled brat who inherited a criminal empire from a father who was too weak to expand it. Vance offered me a seat at the table. Real power. Not running docks and shaking down dockworkers in Southie, but federal power. And all he wanted was one little flash drive and a dead accountant.”
“And the mother?” Austin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Did Vance want her dead, or was that just your bonus?”
Marcus didn’t answer with words. His hand flashed downward toward the Glock with terrifying speed—a move that had saved both their lives a hundred times in alleyways and back-alley warehouses.
He was fast.
Lightning fast.
But Austin wasn't looking at the gun. He was looking at the eyes.
Before Marcus’s finger could curl around the trigger, the heavy brass poker from the fireplace caught him square across the forearm with the force of a falling beam. The Glock clattered onto the hardwood floor.
Marcus grunted, stumbling back against the mantelpiece, clutching his broken wrist. He looked up at Austin, his face twisted in fury and disbelief.
May you like
“You hesitated,” Marcus spat blood from a bitten lip. “You used to be ruthless, Cole. Vermont softened you.”
“No,” Austin said, cocking back the hammer of his Sig Sauer and pressing the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Marcus’s forehead. “Vermont didn’t soften me, Marcus. It taught me what I was protecting.”
