Chapter 3 - THE WOLF IN THE PENTHOUSE
The private elevator pinged softly as it reached the top floor of the Bellaro Tower—a luxury high-rise fortress overlooking the glittering expanse of Lake Michigan.
Inside the mahogany-paneled penthouse, Marcus Vance stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, swirling a glass of vintage Bordeaux as he watched the distant lights of the city skyline. His tailored charcoal suit fit impeccably, and his silver-rimmed glasses caught the reflection of the city below.
His phone buzzed on the marble countertop.
Marcus picked it up, swiping the screen with a calm, unhurried motion. “Talk to me, Julian. Is the nurse dealt with?”
“The nurse got away,” Julian’s voice crackled through the encrypted earpiece, strained and breathless. “She made it down to Roman’s ward before I could corner her. Boss is awake. He knows about the footprint discrepancy.”
Marcus paused, his wine glass halfway to his lips. A thin, predatory smile slowly stretched across his face.
“So the secret is out,” Marcus murmured, his tone eerily serene. “I suppose it was only a matter of time. Roman’s instincts have always been dangerously sharp, even when clouded by grief.”
“What do we do now?” Julian demanded, the sound of heavy footsteps echoing in the background. “Roman is clearing the lower floors. He’s got men moving up the service stairs. If he finds the boy in the abandoned wing, it’s all over for us.”
“Let him come,” Marcus replied smoothly, turning away from the window and walking toward his mahogany desk, where a heavy iron safe was built into the wall. “In fact, make sure he finds the child. Let him hold his real son for exactly three minutes. Let him feel the joy of recovery.”
“Marcus, have you lost your mind?” Julian hissed. “Roman will execute us both before the sun comes up!”
“Roman will execute you,” Marcus corrected softly, his fingers flying across the digital keypad of the safe, punching in a complex twelve-digit security code. “You were the one on the security logs, Julian. You were the one carrying the transport incubator. I was merely the advisor who warned him about internal leaks. Every syndicate family in Chicago is watching this succession. If Roman’s heir turns out to be a stolen child raised by his own treacherous security chief, the Commission will strip Roman of his title for gross incompetence.”
Marcus opened the heavy steel door of the safe and pulled out a thick manila folder stamped with the red seal of the federal prosecutor’s office—complete with wiretap transcripts, money laundering ledgers, and signed affidavits implicating Roman Bellaro in a dozen federal RICO violations.
“And when Roman is broken,” Marcus whispered into the receiver, his eyes gleaming with cold ambition, “I will step in as the stabilizing force of the Bellaro Syndicate. The Council will welcome me with open arms.”
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“And what about the nurse?” Julian asked.
“Hunt her down,” Marcus said, his voice dropping like a falling guillotine. “Leave no trace.”
