Chapter 3 - THE GHOST IN THE FOUNDATION
Marcus Cole was forty-eight years old, with silver hair cropped close at the temples and the posture of an ex-marine who had traded his combat boots for Italian leather loafers. He stood at the edge of the velvet stage curtain, holding a silver tray with an unopened bottle of vintage scotch.
He hadn't expected the room to be empty.
His eyes flickered from the scattered champagne flutes on the floor to Dante, who remained standing alone in the vast, echoing ballroom beneath the chandelier.
"Dante?" Marcus asked, his voice steady, carrying just the right note of deferential concern. "What happened? Lucian said there was a fire hazard in the east wing."
"Set the scotch down, Marcus."
Marcus paused. The muscle beneath his right jaw ticked once. "Did something happen?"
"Set the tray down on the third table to your left. Then keep your hands where the light can hit them."
For three long seconds, the only sound was the distant rumble of town cars accelerating down the long private driveway through the wrought-iron gates. Outside, rain had begun to tap against the ten-foot ballroom windows, heavy and cold off Lake Michigan.
Marcus set the tray down. He didn't drop it. He placed it with the slow, deliberate grace of a man calculating the distance between his hand and the concealed .38 snub-nose tucked into his waistband.
"You're acting strange, boss," Marcus said, raising his hands to shoulder height. "Is it the party? You never liked crowds."
"I like crowds fine," Dante said, circling the gift table slowly, putting distance between himself and the box while keeping his gaze locked on Marcus’s chest. "What I don't like is someone leaving garbage on my mother’s hand-carved mahogany table."
Marcus's eyes shifted toward the lacquered box for a fraction of a second.
It was all Dante needed.
"Her name is Sophie," Dante said quietly. "She likes strawberry frosting. She has very good eyes, Marcus. Better than yours, apparently, because when you were in the flower pantry, you forgot that children hide under the linen carts when they don't want to go to bed."
Marcus didn't plead. He didn't scream. The veneer of the loyal lieutenant stripped away in an instant, revealing the hollow, predatory core beneath.
"You should have opened it, Dante," Marcus whispered. His hand plunged downward toward his waistband.
Dante didn't draw. He didn't have to.
From the shadows behind the grand piano, a single suppressed gunshot coughed—a sharp, muffled *phut*.
Marcus's right shoulder jerked back as a high-caliber round shattered his collarbone. He spun, slamming against the catering table, silver trays and ice buckets crashing down around him in a cacophony of dented steel and shattered glass. He hit the floor, gasping, dark blood immediately pooling through the grey fabric of his tuxedo.
Lucian emerged from the darkness near the sound booth, his custom semi-automatic lowered, smoke curling from the suppressor.
"Alive," Dante commanded without raising his voice.
Lucian stepped forward, placed a heavy boot squarely on Marcus’s uninjured wrist, and kicked the dropped revolver across the floor. He knelt, planting his knee into Marcus’s sternum with ruthless precision.
"Who paid you?" Dante asked, walking over to look down at the man who had sat across from him every Christmas for over a decade.
Marcus grinned through teeth stained red with blood. "You think... you think you own this city, Dante? The Torrino family... they didn't just buy me. They bought the west port. They bought the inspectors. By tomorrow morning... there won't be a Moretti left standing in Illinois."
"And the box?" Dante asked.
"Ten-second delay on the radio receiver," Marcus wheezed, his breath rattling in his throat. "I have the transmitter in my pocket. But it doesn't matter... my partner is outside with the master remote. When he sees the guests leave... he hits the switch."
Lucian looked up at Dante, his weathered face tight. "Boss, the blast radius—"
"Get the girl and Clara out through the sub-tunnel under the cellar," Dante barked. "Now! Move them toward the carriage house!"
"What about you?" Lucian asked.
May you like
"I’m carrying the box."
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