Chapter 3 - THE ART OF THE BLACKMAIL
By 4:00 AM, the internet was on fire.
Leo’s video hadn't just gone viral; it had become an algorithmic wildfire. On Facebook and TikTok, the hashtag #JusticeForSloan was trending globally. Millions of people watched the billionaire’s daughter force a working-class maid to crawl like an animal, accompanied by the audio of Valentina threatening a dying woman's insurance.
But while the public raged, the real damage was happening in the criminal underworld.
Sloan sat in Leo’s cramped apartment, staring at the ledger open on the table. The pages details were horrific. Fallon had systematically poisoned his wife over six months, using an untraceable digitalis compound disguised as her heart medication, all to seize her family's shipping docks.
“Dante Vance’s people just bit the hook,” Leo said, looking up from his laptop. “I sent a encrypted snippet of the ledger’s shipping logs to Vance's burner email, along with the link to the viral video. Vance just sent a reply. He wants a meeting. Tonight. At the abandoned pier 44.”
“Good,” Sloan said, her eyes cold. “We use Vance to protect my mother and crush Fallon's enforcement. But we don't give Vance the whole ledger. If he gets his hands on the entire book, he becomes the new Fallon Caruso. We keep the pages detailing the murder. That’s our insurance policy.”
Suddenly, Sloan’s phone rang. It was an unknown number.
She answered it, pressing it to her ear without saying a word.
“Sloan.”
It was Fallon’s voice. It wasn't bored anymore. It was vibrating with a controlled, lethal rage.
“You think a little internet publicity protects you?” Fallon hissed. “The cops are at my gates because of that video, and my stock prices are plummeting. But I know what you took from the sunroom, girl. Silas found the empty hidden compartment. You have my wife’s book.”
Sloan gripped the phone tightly, her knuckles turning white. “I do. And I know you murdered her, Fallon. I have the medical logs, the poison delivery receipts, and Elena’s own diary entries.”
“Listen to me very carefully,” Fallon growled. “Your mother’s ventilator runs on electricity provided by a hospital funded by my family. I can have her plug pulled with a single phone call. I can make it look like an equipment malfunction. You return that ledger to me at the downtown cathedral in two hours, or you can start planning her funeral.”
The line went dead.
Leo looked at her, panicked. “Sloan, what do we do? He’ll kill her!”
Sloan stood up, her face a mask of absolute determination. “No, he won't. Because Fallon thinks he’s the only one who knows how to play dirty. Leo, I need you to make a copy of the murder pages. We’re going to the cathedral. But we aren't going alone.”
Two hours later, the grand, gothic arches of St. Jude’s Cathedral were shrouded in thick morning fog. Sloan walked down the center aisle alone, her heavy coat wrapped tightly around her. The church was empty, save for a single figure sitting in the front pew.
Fallon Caruso turned around. He looked older, haggard, the stress of the viral scandal clearly taking its toll. Silas stood a few feet away, his hand inside his coat.
“Where is it?” Fallon demanded.
Sloan pulled a thick envelope from her coat and held it up. “Right here. But before I hand it over, I want a signed, notarized transfer of my mother’s medical trust to an independent offshore account. Fully funded for the next ten years.”
Fallon laughed, a cold, mocking sound. “You’re in no position to negotiate, maid. Silas, take the envelope and break her knees. Let’s see if she likes crawling in a church as much as she did at my dinner table.”
Silas stepped forward, pulling a silenced pistol from his jacket.
But before he could take a step toward Sloan, the heavy stained-glass windows at the side of the cathedral shattered into a thousand pieces.
Flashbang grenades bounced across the stone floor, exploding in a blinding flash of white light and deafening noise. Armed men in black tactical gear poured through the broken windows, their weapons raised.
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Leading them was a man with sharp, aristocratic features and a scar running down his jaw—Dante Vance.
“Hello, Fallon,” Dante smiled, his assault rifle leveled directly at Fallon’s chest. “Thanks for setting up the meeting. And thanks to your little maid here, I think I’m taking over the city tonight.”
