Chapter 6 - The Web of Vipers
“Is that right, Senator?” I asked softly, standing up from Victor and leaving him gasping on the carpet like a dying animal.
I turned my full, terrifying attention toward the man in the expensive Brioni suit. Senator Richard Vance looked like a man standing on a trapdoor with the executioner’s hand resting on the lever.
“It’s… it’s a political smear,” the senator stammered, backing up until his spine hit the mahogany sideboard, knocking over a tray of crystal glasses that shattered with a musical clink. “You have no proof! That hard drive is obtained illegally—it’s inadmissible in any federal court!”
“Federal court?” I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that echoed off the high ceiling. “Richard, do you really think I’m going to hand you over to a federal judge so you can spend two years in a minimum-security country club playing tennis while your lawyers file appeals?”
I walked slowly across the room toward him, pocketing my pistol as I drew a heavy, serrated combat knife from the sheath strapped to my calf.
“Marcus,” I commanded without breaking stride.
“Boss?”
“Lock the floor. No hotel staff, no security, no witnesses in or out until I say so. And pick Victor up off the floor. Put him in a chair. If he tries to pass out, throw a glass of scotch in his face. We’re going to have a family meeting.”
For the next two hours, the top floor of the Manhattan Athletic Club became a slaughterhouse of secrets.
Victor and the senator turned on each other with the rabid desperation of cornered rats. Every bribe, every political favor, every backdoor deal involving the New York docks, federal judges, and the Mendoza cartel was laid bare under the sharp edge of my knife and Marcus’s unflinching persuasion.
It wasn't just a local turf war. It was a multi-million-dollar conspiracy orchestrated by a corrupt political machine to seize absolute control of the tri-state shipping corridors by eliminating anyone who stood in their way—starting with Isabella Russo, who had accidentally intercepted a shipping manifest linking the senator’s campaign fund to international arms smuggling.
When dawn finally began to streak the Manhattan skyline in bruised shades of purple and grey, Senator Richard Vance was tied to a chair in the corner of the room, his face bruised, his expensive suit soaked in sweat and spilled liquor.
Across from him sat Victor, staring blankly at the floor, broken beyond repair.
I stood by the window, smoking a cigarette—a rare habit I only indulged in when the blood on my hands was too thick to wash off easily.
“Marcus,” I said, blowing a thin stream of grey smoke toward the glass.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Take the senator’s personal phone. Forward the entire decryption package containing the wire transfers, the audio logs of today’s confession, and the shipping manifests to three people: the United States Attorney General, the Editor-in-Chief of the New York Times, and my private legal counsel.”
Marcus blinked in surprise. “You’re turning them over to the press and the feds? After everything?”
“Not all of them,” I said, turning around slowly. I pointed the burning tip of my cigarette toward Victor. “Victor stays with us. Take him down to the basement of the Queens warehouse. Lock him in cell four. Let him think about what it’s like to live in a tomb for the rest of his natural life.”
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“And the senator?” Marcus asked.
“Let the feds arrest him on live television at 9:00 AM outside his Park Avenue apartment,” I said coldly. “Let the world watch his entire career burn to the ground before he even reaches the courthouse steps. That’s a much worse punishment than a bullet.”
