Chapter 4 - The Traitor's MaskThe air in the master suite turned instantly lethal.
Nathan didn't hesitate. The moment Marcus’s voice echoed over the speaker, Nathan reached into his tailored jacket, pulling a sleek, silver snub-nosed revolver from an armpit holster.
"Vincent, move!" Lena screamed, throwing her body forward with all the momentum her broad frame possessed.
She slammed into Nathan’s hip just as he raised the gun.
The weapon discharged with a deafening BANG, the bullet tearing through the heavy oak beam above the fireplace, showering the room with wood splinters and plaster dust.
Nathan stumbled back against the bar, snarling in rage as he brought the butt of the pistol down hard against Lena’s shoulder. Pain exploded through her collarbone, sending her crashing onto the Persian rug with a gasping cry.
"You fat little bitch!" Nathan roared, raising the gun to finish her.
He never got the chance.
Vincent was on him like a panther. He seized Nathan’s gun hand, twisting the wrist with brutal, bone-crushing force until the revolver clattered harmlessly onto the marble hearth. In the same fluid movement, Vincent drove his left fist directly into Nathan’s solar plexus, knocking the air out of his cousin's lungs, followed by a vicious right hook that sent Nathan crashing over the mahogany bar, shattering glass bottles in a shower of bourbon and crystal.
Nathan collapsed among the broken glass, coughing blood, his face bruised and disfigured.
The private elevator doors slid open with a violent chiming sound, and Marcus Vance rushed into the room with three tactical guards, their automatic rifles raised and ready.
"DONT SHOOT!" Vincent commanded, his voice roaring like thunder through the wrecked suite.
Vincent stood over his cousin, his breathing heavy, his dark hair falling wildly over his forehead. Blood dripped from his bruised knuckles—not his own, but Nathan’s.
"Search him," Vincent ordered Marcus coldly.
Marcus and two guards pulled Nathan out from behind the ruined bar, pinning him against the floor. Marcus reached into Nathan’s breast pocket and pulled out a small, metallic object.
It was a fountain pen. A heavy, silver Montblanc refillable pen—loaded with dark blue ink.
Beside it, tucked into his inner pocket, was a small notepad made of thick, high-rag parchment paper.
Lena pushed herself up from the floor, clutching her bruised shoulder, her face pale with pain and shock. Vincent immediately stepped over to her, kneeling beside her, his hands surprisingly gentle as he checked her arm and collarbone.
"Are you broken?" Vincent asked, genuine concern softening the hard edges of his voice.
"I... I think it’s just a bad bruise," Lena choked out, leaning into his touch instinctively. "Did... did he do it?"
Vincent turned his cold, deadly gaze down to his cousin on the floor.
"Why, Nathan?" Vincent asked, his voice deathly quiet. "We were raised as brothers. My father treated you like his own son after your parents died. I gave you thirty percent of the county operations."
Nathan let out a bloody, bitter laugh, spitting a mouthful of crimson onto the Persian rug.
"Thirty percent?" Nathan sneered, his dark eyes filled with a venomous, lifelong jealousy. "You gave me thirty percent of your crumbs, Vincent! Your father took my father's share of the empire thirty years ago and called it 'family unity'! I built the shipping routes! I negotiated the docks with the Russians! And yet every time someone mentions the Calder name, they bow to you!"
"So you made a deal with Sal Marcone," Vincent said, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. "You provided the poison, framed Everett using his gambling debts, and ensured Aaron took the fall if the plate was questioned."
"Everett was an easy mark," Nathan wheezed, grinning through his bloodied teeth. "A greedy fool who believed anything written on nice paper. If Aaron had died without waking up, Everett would have been executed in your cellar by morning, Marcone would have launched a strike on the estate during the confusion, and I would have stepped in to take control of the family."
Nathan looked past Vincent, glaring directly at Lena with absolute hatred.
"I had it all planned for six months," Nathan spat. "Every detail was perfect. And it was ruined... by a damn kitchen maid who smelled too much pepper in the gravy."
"She isn't a kitchen maid," Vincent said calmly, standing up and pulling Lena gently to her feet, keeping a supportive arm around her waist. "She is the woman who saved the Calder family from a snake."
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Vincent looked at Marcus. "Take him to the deep cellar. Strip him of everything. No food, no water, no medical treatment until Sal Marcone's entire organization is dismantled."
"With pleasure, Boss," Marcus said, hauling the struggling traitor out of the room.
