“Roberto won't see it that way,” Dominic cautioned. “He's claiming Thomas was under Vega protection.”
“A protection offered after his betrayal of us,” I replied coolly. “They can't declare sanctuary for someone who violated our trust while still in our employment. If Roberto wants to discuss redrawn boundaries, I'm willing to listen. But this execution stands without apology.”
My phone vibrated against my thigh. A text from my grandmother:
Grandmother
Hospital called. Your physician retiring next month. Need replacement. Recommendations?
A minor irritation. Dr. Montgomery had treated my burn scarring for over a decade, one of the few medical professionals I permitted to touch my disfigurement. His retirement would necessitate extensive vetting of potential replacements, a process requiring thorough background checks and ironclad confidentiality agreements. The scarring wasn't merely physical—it mapped emotional territories I allowed no one to explore without strict limitations.
Adrian
Have Harrison compile candidates. Full background checks. Experience with severe burn trauma essential.
My attention snapped back to the club floor as a disturbance erupted below—two men grappling over a female patron whose discomfort was evident even from my elevated position. Such disorder in my establishment was unacceptable. I caught Viktor's eye with a slight nod toward the altercation.
“Clear it quietly,” I instructed. “Membership revoked for whoever initiated. Escort them out separately. The woman stays if she chooses.”
Viktor moved with lethal grace toward the stairs, his expression promising consequences beyond mere ejection. Like the Vega situation, such infractions required swift, decisive correction. In my world, chaos existed only where I permitted it, controlled disorder serving specific purposes. Unpermitted disruptions threatened the delicate balance I maintained between legitimacy and criminal enterprise.
Dominic leaned closer, his voice pitched below the music. “I pulled Thomas's phone records. He made contact with Harrison three times last week before meeting with Vega. Might be nothing, but...”
I kept my expression neutral despite the flare of suspicion this information ignited. Harrison had been my father's financial advisor, then my grandfather's, and now mine. He had pulled me from the flames twenty-four years ago, earning permanent loyalty. Yet I trusted no one completely. Harrison's political connections made him vital to our operations, but they also created potential conflicts of interest.
“Look deeper,” I instructed. “Discreetly. If Harrison is playing both sides, I want proof before confrontation.”
Dominic nodded, understanding the delicacy required. Accusing Harrison without absolute verification would fracture alliances built over decades. Yet ignoring potential betrayal invited disaster. The memory of blue eyes watching through a balaclava as my parents were executed never fully faded from my consciousness, a permanent reminder that betrayal often came from within one's innermost circle.
“It's almost time,” I noted, checking my watch. The night's final meeting awaited, a negotiation with Belgian diamond merchants requiring my personal touch. “Have the car brought around.”
As we descended toward the private exit, Viktor returned from handling the altercation. “Situation resolved,” he reported. “The woman is Elizabeth Kane, daughter of Judge Kane. Potentially useful connection.”
I filed this information away for future reference. Judge Kane presided over cases frequently intersecting with our interests. His daughter's presence in my club offered intriguing possibilities for subtle influence. “Make sure she receives VIP treatment. Complimentary membership upgrade. Nothing obvious.”
The night air felt cleansing after the club's heated atmosphere. Dominic held the Bentley's door as I slid into the leather interior, already mentally preparing for the Belgian negotiation. London slept while I conducted the business that kept her criminal underbelly functioning with smooth, invisible coordination. Few suspected how many legitimate enterprises depended on the shadow economy I controlled, the symbiotic relationship between daylight commerce and midnight transactions.
The Belgian meeting concluded successfully,rough diamonds changing hands for bearer bonds in a transaction that would be laundered through legitimate channels by morning. The Bentley glided through London's deserted 3 AM streets, Dominic driving while I reviewed tomorrow's meeting strategy on my tablet. The headlights of a car materialised in the side mirror, following our turns with suspicious consistency.
“We have company,” I noted quietly, closing my tablet. “Black Audi, three car lengths back.”
Dominic's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Noticed. Four minutes now. Taking evasive measures.”
The Bentley accelerated smoothly as Dominic executed a series of turns designed to confirm pursuit. The Audi matched our movements, closing the distance with each manoeuvre. As we entered a less populated area, the following car suddenly accelerated, pulling alongside us with reckless intent.
“Down!” I shouted as the first bullets shattered the rear window. Despite the Bentley's reinforced glass and armour plating, one round penetrated, grazing my shoulder as I drew my own weapon from its concealed holster.
Dominic executed a perfect defensive manoeuvre, spinning the car to create a protected firing position while simultaneously drawing his weapon. The coppery scent of my blood filled the car's interior, familiar and enraging. Pain bloomed across my shoulder, but I compartmentalised it with practiced discipline. Wounds could be addressed after threats were neutralised.
The Audi accelerated, closing the distance, but I sighted carefully through the shattered window, controlling my breathing despite the surge of adrenaline. My shots were methodical, controlled—two through the approaching vehicle’s windshield, dropping the driver instantly. The car skidded,veered sharply off course, then mounted the curb and crashed into a lamppost.
“Cover me,” I instructed Dominic, exiting the Bentley in a low crouch, weapon trained on the crashed vehicle. Blood trickled warm down my arm inside my suit jacket, but I registered it as mere data, not distraction.
The passenger door of the Audi creaked open. A young man stumbled out, hands raised in immediate surrender when he saw my weapon trained on him. He couldn't have been more than twenty, wearing Vega family colours and an expression of pure terror.
“Please,” he stammered, his accent marking him as one of the newer Vega recruits from their Spanish connections. “Don't shoot.”
I advanced methodically, keeping my weapon trained on his centre mass. “Who sent you?” I demanded, though I already knew the answer. This attack reeked of Roberto's impulsive tactics—poorly planned, executed by expendable foot soldiers, designed more to send a message than achieve a strategic objective.
