Chapter 3 - The Face of the Traitor
The study smelled of bleach and ozone, the stained rug already removed. Damian stood by the bookshelf, his hands shaking slightly from the aftereffects of the poison, and pulled down the encyclopedia.
He popped the hidden compartment, extracted the tiny memory card, and slid it into his encrypted laptop. Silas stood behind him, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife.
The video fed onto the screen.
At 4:15 PM, the study was empty. At 4:20 PM, the heavy oak doors opened.
Damian’s breath hitched. Walking into the frame was Marcus Cross. His cousin. The man who had stood beside him at Mia's funeral. The man Damian had treated like a brother.
On the screen, Marcus walked over to the desk with casual arrogance. He pulled a small glass vial from his inner suit pocket, uncorked the Barolo Damian had left breathing on the side table, and poured a few drops inside. He gave the bottle a gentle swirl, smiled to himself, and walked out.
The silence in the room was absolute.
"Marcus," Silas breathed, the betrayal thick in his throat. "I'll kill him right now. I'll take his head off in the dining room."
"No," Damian said. His voice was no longer raspy; it was entirely dead. The kind of dead that precedes a massacre. "If you kill him now, his loyalists in the family will start a civil war. He thinks he won. He thinks my collapse was just a severe allergic reaction that barely missed killing me."
Damian closed the laptop. "We let him think he’s safe. And we make him bleed."
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"What about the girl and her mother?" Silas asked.
Damian looked toward the door. "Bring them to me."
