Chapter 3 - The Syndicate’s Shadow
By sunset, the Newport mansion felt different. The oppressive, manufactured elegance that Brooke had imposed over the last year had vanished, replaced by the warm, steady hum of family life. Natalie and Noah were settled into the historic east cottage, surrounded by boxes of old photographs and memories of Catherine Mercer. Dominic sat on the porch of the cottage, a heavy encrypted satellite phone resting in his palm.
Marcus stepped out of the shadows of the garden path, his boots crunching on the gravel. "Boss. We tracked Brooke’s phone. She didn't go to a hotel. She went straight to the Newport Marina and boarded a chartered yacht registered to 'Vane Maritime Holdings'."
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. Vane Maritime Holdings.
"Julian Vane," Dominic murmured. "Brooke’s older brother. A London-based shipping magnate with heavy ties to Eastern European contraband networks."
"That explains the financial leak," Marcus nodded, handing over a freshly printed dossier. "Vane has been trying to acquire the Newport shipping docks for three years. Our family trust holds the controlling share of the port authority. When Brooke failed to manipulate you into signing the trust over legally, her family's backup plan was hostile corporate takeover paired with physical leverage."
"They thought marriage was a shortcut," Dominic said, standing up and rolling his shoulders. "When that failed, they’ll resort to force."
Before Marcus could answer, the satellite phone in Dominic’s hand began to vibrate violently. It wasn't a standard call—it was an encrypted emergency relay from the perimeter security grid.
Warning: Main gate sensor breached. Sector 4 offline.
Simultaneously, the overhead lights of the entire estate flickered once, twice, and then plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
"EMP strike," Marcus barked, drawing his sidearm. "They’ve fried the local grid nodes. Boss, get inside the cottage!"
"No," Dominic said coldly, racking the slide of his custom Sig Sauer pistol. "They want to play games in the dark on my property? Let’s show them why half of New England fears the Mercer name."
From the tree line surrounding the east cottage, the rhythmic crunch of combat boots began to echo through the foggy night air. Heavy shadows—dozens of them, clad in tactical black gear and night-vision goggles—emerged from the mist, moving in a synchronized, military-grade pincer formation toward the cottage.
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Brooke stood at the front of the assault squad, wearing a bulletproof vest over a dark turtleneck, her face smeared with camouflage paint. Her manicured hands held an assault rifle, and her laughter cut through the cold autumn wind.
"Did you really think a simple signature on an annulment paper would get rid of me, Dominic?" Brooke screamed into the darkness, her voice dripping with psychotic glee. "Burn the cottage down! Leave no survivors!"
