Chapter 2 - THE SNAKE IN THE GARDENThe knock on the heavy mahogany door came precisely forty-two seconds later. Marcus Vance stepped into the study, his posture military-straight, his grey-flecked hair neatly combed, and his dark blue uniform pressed to absolute perfection.
In his left hand, he held a leather-bound folio containing the estate’s surveillance records.
And resting right there, wrapped snugly around his forearm just beneath the starched cuff of his sleeve, was a custom embroidered patch—or rather, a faint, pale scar shaped like an uncoiled viper.
Damian didn’t blink. He kept his eyes locked on Marcus’s face, searching for the micro-expressions of a traitor. But Marcus looked like the loyal soldier he had pretended to be for twenty years.
“You wanted to see the logs, boss?” Marcus asked, laying the folio on the desk. “I noticed a slight anomaly in Sector Four last night. A motion sensor glitched near the rose garden. I’ve already dispatched a tech crew to look at it.”
Sector Four. The exact spot Ellie had pointed to in her drawing.
“A glitch?” Damian’s voice was velvet-smooth, masking the venom rising in his throat. “Or a leak, Marcus?”
Marcus didn’t flinch. His eyes met Damian’s with a mixture of professional concern and wounded pride. “A leak, Mr. Cross? In our compound? Not on my watch. Whoever tries to breach this place doesn't leave breathing.”
“Is that so?” Damian leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Because twenty years ago, you took a bullet for my father in an alley off Cicero Avenue. The men who shot him wore rings with a green serpent emblem. A splinter faction of the old Outfit that supposedly went extinct when the Chicago police raided the docks in '98.”
For a fraction of a millisecond—so brief that most men would have missed it—the muscle in Marcus’s jaw twitched. The skin around his eyes tightened.
“Ghosts have a way of lingering, boss,” Marcus said quietly. “Especially when debts aren't paid.”
“Whose debt, Marcus? Mine? Or yours?”
Before Marcus could answer, the security chief’s hand twitched toward his hip holster with lightning speed. But Damian was already moving. In one fluid motion, he swept the blueprints aside, snatched the Sig Sauer from the desk, and fired.
Crack.
The bullet slammed into the doorframe an inch from Marcus’s ear, showering splinters across his shoulder. Marcus froze, his hand hovering over his empty holster—he had left his sidearm downstairs per estate protocols.
“Try it again,” Damian whispered, walking slowly around the desk, the barrel of the gun leveled squarely at Marcus’s chest. “And the next one won't miss the bone.”
Marcus stared down the barrel, his chest heaving. Slowly, deliberately, he let out a dry, chilling laugh. He didn't cower. Instead, he reached up with his right hand and deliberately rolled up his sleeve.
There, stark and vivid against his pale skin, was a fully inked tattoo of a green viper sinking its fangs into a skull.
“You think you own this city, Damian?” Marcus sneered, his voice losing all its subservient warmth, replaced by a bitter, venomous hatred. “Your father built this empire on stolen blood. He promised us a seat at the table, and then he sold us out to the feds to save his own skin. I waited twenty-five years for this. And you? You brought a stray kid into your fortress who ruined the entire timeline.”
“Where are they?” Damian snarled, pressing the gun barrel directly against Marcus’s collarbone. “Who else is on the inside?”
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“Look out the window, boss,” Marcus whispered, a dark smile spreading across his lips.
Down in the courtyard, the estate’s main security lights flickered once, twice—and then died completely, plunging the entire mansion into pitch-black darkness.
