Chapter 19 - The Traitor’s Ledger
The rain began to fall in heavy, stinging sheets, slicking the pavement and washing the trail of radiator fluid away from Marcus Vance’s wrecked Mercedes. The CFO scrambled backward on his hands and knees until his spine hit the cold concrete base of the streetlamp, gasping for air as blood trickled down his temple into his left eye.
Leo stood over him, towering like an executioner, his hand resting casually on the grip of his Sig Sauer. He didn't say a word. The sheer terrifying silence of the Casaro patriarch was enough to make strong men weep.
Myra walked slowly toward Marcus, her heels clicking rhythmically against the wet asphalt. She stopped just two feet away, looking down at the man who had managed their finances, the man she had trusted with the foundational ledgers of her new life.
“Marcus,” Myra said softly, her voice carrying a chilling, melodic cruelty. “Running away before the quarterly audit is terrible for corporate etiquette.”
“Myra... please,” Marcus stammered, coughing up a mix of blood and spittle as he clutched his briefcase tighter to his chest. “You don't understand... the federal agents... they cornered me! They threatened to put me away for life on RICO charges! I had no choice!”
“Everyone always has a choice, Marcus,” Myra replied, her eyes narrowing into cold, lethal slits. “You chose to betray the family that put food on your table for twenty years. You chose to trade our names to federal prosecutors to save your own skin.”
Marcus looked up desperately toward Leo. “Leo! Boss! Please! You know me! I’ve been loyal for decades! Don't let her do this—”
“She isn't just a partner in this syndicate, Marcus,” Leo interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal, gravelly register that made the CFO’s blood run cold. “She is the architect of our survival. And you just tried to burn down her house.”
Marcus realized his appeals were useless. Panic surged through him like a live wire. With a desperate, adrenaline-fueled surge of strength, he whipped open the latch of his leather briefcase, pulled out a hidden .38 snub-nosed revolver, and frantically leveled the barrel directly at Myra’s chest.
“If I’m going down, I’m taking the queen with me!” Marcus screamed, his finger tightening convulsively on the trigger.
He never even made it halfway.
Before Marcus could finish his sentence, two deafening gunshots shattered the rainy night air.
Bang! Bang!
Marcus’s eyes widened in shock as the revolver slipped from his lifeless fingers, clattering uselessly against the wet pavement. He slumped forward, his face hitting the asphalt as a spreading pool of dark crimson mixed with the rainwater beneath him.
Myra lowered her Glock 19, smoke curling gently from the barrel into the cool night air. Her hand was steady. Her heart rate hadn't even elevated.
Leo looked down at the dead CFO, then turned his gaze to Myra. A fierce, dark pride burned in his eyes—a reverence so profound it eclipsed everything else in the world.
“You didn't flinch,” Leo whispered, stepping closer to her.
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“A queen doesn't flinch when she cleans her own palace,” Myra replied coldly, engaging the safety of her pistol and sliding it back into her thigh holster. She kicked Marcus’s briefcase away with the toe of her boot, spilling the confidential federal documents across the wet pavement to dissolve in the rain.
“Come on, Leo,” she said, turning back toward the armored Maybach. “We have a syndicate to run.”
