Chapter 7 - The Trap is Sprung
By 8:00 PM that evening, the storm had broken over Chicago, lashing rain against the tall windows of our Lake Forest estate. Inside the main dining hall, everything looked entirely normal. A roaring fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace, casting warm, golden light across the long mahogany dining table.
I sat at the head of the table, wearing a crisp black suit, nursing a glass of scotch. To my right sat Dante Vance, smiling easily, cutting into a rare steak with practiced nonchalance.
"So, Adrien, are we still locked in for tomorrow night’s sit-down with Sal Marcone at the 22nd Street warehouse?" Dante asked, swirling his red wine glass. "Just want to make sure the boys and I have the perimeter secured."
I took a slow sip of my scotch, my eyes locked onto Dante’s face. Every micro-expression—the slight twitch of his left eyelid, the rehearsed casualness in his posture—betrayed the traitor beneath the polished exterior.
"Oh, the sit-down is happening, Dante," I replied smoothly, setting my glass down on the table with a soft clack. "In fact, I think we should bring a few special guests along to witness it."
Dante frowned slightly, a flicker of hesitation crossing his eyes. "Special guests? Who?"
Before Dante could process my words, the heavy double doors of the dining hall swung open with a resounding crash.
Marco stepped into the room, flanked by six of our most elite, heavily armed syndicate enforcers. Behind them, pinned by the arms between two guards, was a terrified mid-level courier from Sal Marcone’s crew, carrying a duffel bag stuffed with burner phones and encrypted flash drives.
Dante’s fork slipped from his hand, clattering loudly against his porcelain plate. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him chalk-white.
"Adrien... what is the meaning of this?" Dante stammered, standing up so fast his chair screeched against the hardwood floor. "Are you arresting one of our own men based on some street rumor—?"
"Sit down, Dante," I commanded, my voice cutting through the room like a razor blade.
I stood up slowly from my chair, buttoning my suit jacket, and walked around the long table until I was standing directly in front of my traitorous underboss.
"Vault 3, Dante," I said quietly, leaning in close so only he could hear. "The counterfeit ledgers, the surveillance feeds of my nursery, the kidnapping schedule for my children... it’s all in my possession now. Along with Isabella’s final letter warning me about the rot eating away at my house."
Dante’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. He realized there was no escape, no alibi, and no way to talk his way out of a death sentence in the underworld.
"Adrien, wait—I can explain, the Outfit pressured me, they offered me a cut of the North Side docks—" Dante lunged forward, his hand diving instinctively toward the concealed shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket.
It was a fatal mistake.
Before Dante’s fingers could even brush the grip of his pistol, Marco moved with lightning speed, striking the back of Dante’s knees with a heavy tactical baton. Dante collapsed hard onto the Persian rug with a strangled gasp.
Two enforcers were on him instantly, pinning his arms behind his back and stripping his weapon away, slapping heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists.
I looked down at Dante, my expression devoid of any human emotion.
May you like
"You sold out my family, Dante," I whispered coldly. "You threatened my children. In my world, there is only one penalty for that kind of treason."
"Take him down to the cellar," I ordered Marco, turning my back on the screaming, thrashing traitor. "Secure the evidence, and prep the trucks. We’re paying Sal Marcone an unexpected visit tonight."
