Chapter 11 - The Phantom Syndicate
The Plaza Hotel declaration sent shockwaves through the global underworld, but power in the shadows never stays uncontested for long. Within three weeks of taking the throne, Cora Whitaker sat at the head of a massive conference table in the Voss estate, surrounded by monitors displaying real-time financial trades, illegal shipping routes, and hospital network databases. Beside her, Julian Voss watched her every move with a quiet, fierce devotion that frightened his remaining capos far more than his legendary cruelty ever had.
"The Falcone loyalists in Chicago have gone silent, boss," Tomas’s replacement, a stone-faced operative named Marcus, reported. "And the European shipment due at the harbor yesterday never docked."
Before Julian could answer, a black velvet box was delivered directly to the estate's private courtyard by an unidentified drone. Marcus brought it into the war room, sweeping it for explosives before placing it in front of Cora.
Cora opened the silver latch. Inside sat two items: an antique medical syringe filled with an iridescent blue liquid, and a faded silver hair clip shaped like a butterfly.
Cora’s breath hitched, her hand hovering over the metal. "This belonged to my mother," she whispered, her voice trembling for the first time in months. "She wore it the day she died in the clinic."
Underneath the hair clip lay a note written in elegant gold ink: The Queen sits on a throne built of medical lies. If you want the truth about Isabella Falcone's corpse, come to the Grand Casino in Macau. Come alone—or the Undertaker dies first.
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Julian reached across the table, his hand crushing the note in his grip, his dark eyes ablaze with protective fury. "It’s a trap, Cora. The European syndicate—The Serpent’s Ring—is trying to draw us out."
"They have my mother’s hair clip, Julian," Cora said, her eyes turning as cold and sharp as surgical steel. "And whoever sent this knows how she really died."
