flash
The air in the Peninsula Hotel ballroom didn't just turn cold—it shattered. Three hundred of Chicago’s most powerful elite froze in place. The faint clinking of crystal glasses ceased entirely. The flash of camera bulbs, which had been steady all night, paused in a collective gasp before erupting into a frenzy of aggressive white light. / Chapter 3 / 9

Chapter 3 - DUST AND VENOM

The next morning, the headlines destroyed the city.

Front-page pictures of Victor Salvatore kissing Lena Marlo at the Peninsula Gala were splashed across every news outlet, television station, and social media platform in North America. The media dubbed it "The Billion-Dollar Betrayal."

Inside his high-rise penthouse downtown, Derek Hail was destroying everything within reach.

Glass vases shattered against marble walls. Laptops were hurled through flat-screen televisions. Three of his senior managers stood cowering near the doorway as Derek paced like a rabid animal, his tie undone, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and excessive whiskey.

"Find her!" Derek screamed, his voice hoarse and wild. "I don't care if you have to burn down half the city! Bring her back to me!"

"Mr. Hail, please," his chief legal council stammered, holding up a tablet. "The Salvatore syndicate has formally filed protection orders through their corporate attorneys. Furthermore, the stock of Hail Enterprises dropped twenty-four percent at the opening bell. If we attack Victor Salvatore directly—"

"I don't care about the stock!" Derek roared, grabbing the attorney by his collar and slamming him against the wall. "She was MY property! She walked out of that room with him in front of the entire world! She made me look like a fool!"

Derek shoved the lawyer away and turned to a dark figure standing silently near the window—a heavily scarred man named Marcus, the head of Hail Enterprises' off-the-books enforcement unit.

"What are your orders, sir?" Marcus asked coldly.

"Victor thinks he's safe behind his fortress walls," Derek hissed, a sick, twisted smile forming on his face. "He thinks he's a savior. But Lena has a weakness. Her father is still sitting in St. Jude’s Private Hospital under my company’s medical insurance."

Derek walked over to his desk and picked up a silver pen, snapping it in half with his bare hands.

"Cut the power to his life support unit," Derek commanded smoothly. "And leave a note for Lena. If she wants her father to breathe past midnight, she comes to the old river warehouse. Alone."

Meanwhile, miles away at the Salvatore compound, Lena stood in a grand library, staring out at the rain slicking the iron gates. She was wearing a soft wool sweater, but no amount of fabric could warm the cold dread settling in her gut.

Suddenly, her phone—a secure device Victor had provided—vibrated on the wooden desk.

It was a single text message from an unknown number. Attached was a photo of her father’s hospital room. A man in a dark hoodie was standing next to the heart monitor, his hand hovering over the main power switch.

May you like

The screech of the chopper’s rotor blades vibrated directly through the freezing slate beneath my spine. The blinding white vortex of snow kicked up by the downdraft burned my eyes, but I forced my lids open, locking my gaze onto the amber visor of the rescue specialist dropping out of the sky.

The screech of the chopper’s rotor blades vibrated directly through the...

Daniel stepped toward the bed, his polished leather shoes squeaking against the pristine hospital linoleum. He reached for the tray table, his fingers brushing the edge of the papers. His voice was low, coated in a practiced, corporate calm that made my stomach churn worse than the spiked blood pressure.

Daniel stepped toward the bed, his polished leather shoes squeaking agai...

The silence in the dining room stretched thin, heavy enough to slice with a butter knife. Robert, Michael’s father, adjusted his napkin, completely oblivious to the silent war being fought across the porcelain plates.

The silence in the dining room stretched thin, heavy enough to slice wit...

Below the photo was one line of text:

‘You belong to me, Lena. Come home, or buy your father a coffin.’

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