Chapter 8 - Whispers in the Library
The mahogany-paneled library of the Voss estate was pitch dark except for the amber glow of the desk lamp cutting across rows of leather-bound volumes.
I paced across the Persian rug, my heels clicking softly against the floor, while Damian stood by the cold fireplace, arms crossed, staring down at the laptop screen resting on the mahogany desk.
“The Council,” Damian repeated, his voice dangerously low. “I thought they disbanded after the currency crash in Zurich two years ago.”
“They didn't disband,” I said, stopping my pacing to look at him. “They just went underground. And when Marcus started losing control of the Chicago docks, they hired those mercenaries to wipe out everyone in this house—not just me, not just Lily, but you too, Damian.”
Damian raised his head, his dark eyes narrowing into twin slits of pure ice. “They thought they could use my home as a graveyard.”
“They don't care about your empire, Damian. To them, you’re just a regional asset that went rogue the moment you decided to protect my daughter,” I replied, pulling up a secondary document from the encrypted drive. “And according to these files, their regional director is currently operating right here in Illinois under corporate diplomatic immunity.”
“Name?”
“Julian Vance. A senior partner at Sterling Global Logistics.”
Damian’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched. “Sterling Global. They handle half the import freight coming off the lake docks. I’ve sat across the board table from Julian twice this year.”
“Which means he thinks he’s untouchable,” I said, walking over to the desk and closing the laptop lid with a firm snap. “He thinks because he wears an expensive suit and donates to the mayor’s re-election campaign, he’s immune to consequences.”
“And what do you propose we do, Agent Hart?” Damian asked, a dangerous, thrilling edge creeping into his voice as he stepped closer to me. “Call the federal prosecutors back? Ask for another round of grand jury subpoenas that will take six months to process?”
“No,” I said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “We don't call the Bureau. We run our own audit.”
Damian let out a low, dark laugh—the sound of a predator recognizing a kindred spirit. “Now you’re speaking my language. When do we strike?”
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“Tomorrow night. Julian is hosting a private charity gala at the art museum downtown. High security, guest list only, and every corrupt politician in the Midwest will be drinking champagne in his honor.”
“Perfect,” Damian murmured, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from my forehead. “Let’s go crash a party.”
