Chapter 12 - The Leak
The television mounted on the library wall hissed to life, casting a harsh, artificial blue glow across the antique bookshelves. The news anchor’s voice was frantic, accompanied by a scrolling banner that made the blood in Claire’s veins run cold: FED-CRACKDOWN: CHICAGO SYNDICATE EXPOSED THROUGH ILLICIT REAL ESTATE NETWORK.
Images of the South Loop logistics hub flashed across the screen, followed by leaked corporate filings bearing Claire’s maiden name as the primary signatory. The federal prosecutor was holding an impromptu press conference, brandishing documents that mapped out the entire financial architecture Claire and Adrian had spent the last six months legalizing and restructuring.
“They didn't just leak the old files,” Claire whispered, her eyes locked on the screen as her maiden name scrolled across national television. “They leaked the updated corporate registry. Someone inside our inner circle compromised the encrypted server.”
Dominic didn't panic. He didn't smash a glass or shout orders. His face hardened into a mask of pure, unadulterated ice. The transformation was terrifying; every ounce of warmth vanished from his eyes, leaving behind the cold, calculating warlord who had conquered the Chicago docks before his twenty-fifth birthday.
“It wasn't one of my men,” Dominic said, his voice deadly quiet. “And Cross’s inner circle has been vetted twice over since the club incident.”
“Then it’s an external breach,” Claire said, standing up from her desk with swift, purposeful movements. She walked over to the safe hidden behind the oil painting of the Chicago river, punched in the six-digit biometric combination, and pulled out her secure military-grade laptop. Her fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard, running a diagnostic sweep on the encrypted network nodes. “Someone bypassed the firewall using an administrative backdoor. A backdoor that only one other person in this city possesses the encryption keys for.”
Adrian’s voice came through the open intercom again, cutting through the heavy silence of the study. “You thinking what I’m thinking, Claire? Or are we going to pretend that ghosts don't rise from the dead?”
“Who?” Dominic demanded, leaning over the desk toward the speaker.
“Marcus Vance,” Adrian said flatly. “Your former chief financial officer. The man you exiled to Marseilles six years ago after he tried to skim three million off the port authority contracts.”
Memory flashed through Dominic’s mind. Marcus Vance—a man who smiled like a saint while bleeding a syndicate dry. Dominic had spared his life out of old-school loyalty, banishing him to Europe with nothing but the clothes on his back and a strict warning never to set foot in North America again.
“Vance doesn't have the technical capability to crack our current encryption,” Dominic growled.
“He doesn't need to,” Claire said, her eyes fixed on the rapidly scrolling lines of green code on her laptop screen. “Look at the routing logs. The data packet wasn't uploaded from Europe. It was decrypted and broadcasted from a private terminal less than ten miles from this house—right out of the old industrial district in Evanston.”
Dominic straightened up, his hand dropping automatically to the holster beneath his arm. He reached for his phone, dialing a direct command code to his tactical enforcers stationed around the estate.
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“Saddle up,” Dominic ordered into the phone. “We’re burning Evanston to the ground.”
Claire closed her laptop with a sharp snap, her eyes gleaming with cold fury. “No, Dominic. We aren't just burning it. We’re going to pay Marcus a personal visit, and I’m going to show him what happens when someone tries to steal my name.”
