Chapter 17 - The Roots of Betrayal
Late that evening, after the boardroom had emptied and the capos had scattered back to their respective territories like chastised schoolboys, Myra remained seated at the head of the massive mahogany table. The room was dark, illuminated only by the pale moonlight filtering through the high arched windows.
The heavy doors opened quietly, and Leo walked in, holding a crystal glass filled with amber bourbon. He set it gently down in front of her before pulling out the chair beside her and sitting down.
“You handled them like a seasoned general,” Leo said softly, a genuine smile of pride touching the corner of his mouth. “Salvatore was testing you. If you had shown even a fraction of hesitation, he would have eaten you alive.”
“Hesitation is a luxury for people who don't have targets on their backs,” Myra replied, picking up the glass and taking a small sip. The burn was familiar now, comforting even. She stared down at the polished wood of the table, her mind drifting back to a time before the blood, before the syndicate, before the betrayal. “My father used to tell me that people only respect what they fear or what they love. I decided a long time ago I’d rather be feared than lied to.”
Leo looked at her, his dark eyes softening in the dim light. He reached across the table, covering her hand with his own large, calloused palm. “You don't have to carry all of that weight alone anymore, Myra. You have me.”
Myra turned her hand over, intertwining her fingers with his. She felt the raw, undeniable strength in his grip—a strength that had protected her when the world tried to crush her.
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if Nico hadn't made that bet?” Myra asked quietly, her voice laced with a strange, melancholic curiosity. “If I had walked into that bedroom and found him studying for his corporate law exams instead of laughing with Chloe about selling my body?”
“You would have married an arrogant, unfaithful fool who would have spent the rest of his life treating you like an ornament,” Leo answered without a moment's hesitation, his voice firm and unwavering. “And you would have lived a small, quiet, miserable life in a suburban house, never knowing what you were truly capable of.”
Myra let out a short, humorless laugh. “You make the mafia sound like a form of higher education.”
“It’s a crucible,” Leo corrected gently, sliding his chair closer until his shoulder pressed against hers. “It burns away everything weak, everything fake, and leaves only what is indestructible. Look at what you’ve become, Myra. You aren't just surviving my world—you’re ruling it.”
Before Myra could respond, the secure encrypted phone on the corner of the mahogany table buzzed violently, flashing a crimson alert code from the downtown financial district.
Myra’s expression instantly hardened. The vulnerability vanished, replaced once again by the lethal, calculating queen of the underworld. She snatched the phone off the desk and decrypted the message with a single biometric scan.
Her eyes widened slightly as she read the incoming data stream.
“What is it?” Leo asked, his posture instantly shifting into tactical readiness.
“It’s not Chicago,” Myra said, her voice dropping to an icy whisper. “And it’s not Boston.”
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“Then who?”
“Federal task force,” Myra said, looking up to meet Leo’s gaze with absolute deadpan focus. “Someone inside our inner circle just leaked our primary offshore shell accounts to the FBI.”
