Chapter 8 - The Trap SpringsUpstairs, the Hamptons mansion was bathed in the soft, warm glow of recessed lighting.
Elena Vance sat at the sprawling Italian marble kitchen island, wearing a silk robe of midnight blue. She swirled a glass of vintage Dom Pérignon, her red lips curved into a triumphant smile. On the counter beside her sat her phone, connected to the estate’s master security feed.
The camera in the east wing basement had gone dark after the flashbang, but the audio feed had picked up the gunfire. Four shots. Then silence.
"Marcus," Elena called out, her voice sweet and musical.
A tall man in a tailored Brioni suit stepped out from the shadows of the formal dining room. It was Marcus, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead.
"They're dead?" Marcus asked, his voice trembling slightly.
"Of course they're dead," Elena laughed softly, taking a sip of champagne. "Viktor is brilliant, but he’s arrogant. He walked right into the trap like a lamb to the slaughter. By sunrise, the wire transfers will clear to Zurich, the Chicago council will ratify my acquisition of his European ports, and Viktor Kovac will be remembered as a tragic casualty of a syndicate turf war."
Marcus exhaled a long, shaky breath, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. "And the maid? The Asian girl?"
"Collateral damage," Elena dismissed dismissively, waving a slender hand. "She was asking too many questions about the laundry schedules anyway. Throw her body in the same van as Viktor. Make it look like a botched robbery."
"It's done," a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the vaulted entryway behind them.
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Elena froze. The champagne glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the marble floor, the golden liquid splashing across her bare feet like blood.
She spun around.
