Chapter 6 - The Counter-Strike
Before Vanessa could scream, the secure intercom on the wall buzzed. One of the guards clicked the receiver.
"Boss," a gruff voice echoed through the speaker. "Marcus Vance’s convoy just pulled up downstairs. Four vehicles. They think Vanessa completed the job and they're here to take control of the main lobby."
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Adrian’s face. It wasn't the warm, charming smile the public saw on magazine covers; it was the look of a grandmaster who had just watched his opponent walk straight into a checkmate.
"Let them in," Adrian ordered calmly. "Open the front security gates. Tell the front desk to offer them champagne." He turned his attention back to me. "Mara. Do you trust me?"
I looked at the black platinum card still sitting in my apron pocket, then up at the man who controlled half of Chicago. My mother's medical bills were already paid off through an anonymous deposit that hit my bank account thirty minutes ago—courtesy of Adrian’s meticulous staff. I had nothing left to lose, and everything to gain.
"I trust that you don't like losing, Mr. Cross," I replied evenly.
May you like
Adrian chuckled, a rich, genuine sound. "Call me Adrian. And you're entirely right." He looked at his head of security. "Prep the tactical feed for the basement garage and the main dining hall. Let’s show Marcus Vance what happens when he tries to buy my city out from under me."
Within minutes, the surveillance feeds flickered to life on the massive wall screen. We watched in crystal-clear high definition as Marcus Vance—slick, arrogant, and flanked by six armed enforcers—strode through the grand entrance of Blackthorn House, expecting to claim his prize.
