Chapter 7 - The Interrogation at MidnightViktor Vance sat in the leather-lined back of his private limousine, sipping scotch as his driver navigated the winding back roads toward the state line.
Everything was going according to plan. The girl would take the fall, Dante’s financial ledgers would be wiped, and the Thorne empire would crumble from the inside out under the weight of federal conspiracy charges.
Suddenly, the limousine gave a violent lurch, its tires screeching as it drifted sideways across the asphalt, coming to a dead stop against a concrete barrier.
"What the hell is going on?!" Vance snapped, rolling down the partition glass.
His driver didn't answer.
Vance pushed the door open and stepped out into the misty night air—only to freeze in his tracks.
Blocking the road ahead was Dante’s black SUV, its high beams glaring directly into his eyes. And standing right in front of the headlights, holding a leash attached to a massive, slate-colored shadow, was Dante Thorne.
"Viktor," Dante said, his voice smooth and conversational as he walked slowly toward the limousine. "Leaving so soon? I thought we were going to discuss business."
Vance forced a thin, oily smile, slipping his hand slowly toward his coat pocket where a snub-nosed revolver rested. "Dante. I heard about your little kennel maid. Tragic, really. Shows you can't trust people from the wrong side of the tracks."
"She’s not from the wrong side of the tracks," Dante said, stopping five feet away. "She’s the only decent thing left in this county."
"And what are you going to do?" Vance sneered, his fingers wrapping around the grip of his gun. "Shoot me in the middle of a public highway? The cops are already on their way."
"The cops aren't coming, Viktor," Dante replied calmly. "Because your chief of police is currently tied up in his own basement, listening to my security team explain how jurisdiction works in my district."
Vance’s face paled. He whipped his gun out of his coat—
He never got the barrel up.
With a roar that shook the trees, Nero lunged forward at the end of the leather lead. He didn't bite Vance; he hit him like a freight train, sending the syndicate boss flying backward over the hood of his own limousine. The revolver clattered across the pavement into the ditch.
Nero planted one massive, heavy paw squarely on Vance’s chest, pinning him flat to the metal hood. The dog bared his teeth inches from Vance’s nose, a low, tectonic growl vibrating through the night air.
May you like
Dante stepped up, resting his hand on Nero’s shoulder, and looked down at the terrified Chicago boss.
"Now," Dante said softly, pulling a digital recorder from his pocket. "Let's talk about how Cora Walsh is going to be a completely free woman within the hour."
