Chapter 8 - The Syndicate's Mistake
The secure safehouse was located on the top floor of a high-rise downtown penthouse overlooking the glittering skyline of the city. It was a fortress of glass, steel, and absolute security, far away from the smoking ruins of Ilbastion.
Ruby sat on a plush velvet sofa in the sprawling living room, wrapped in a warm woolen blanket, holding a steaming cup of black coffee that Valente had personally poured for her.
Across the room, tied securely to a heavy metal chair in the center of the rug, sat Councilman Arthur Davis. The politician looked like a ghost, his clothes stained with soot and sweat, staring blankly at the floor.
Valente stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, staring out at the twinkling lights of the city while holding the satellite phone to his ear. He spoke in low, clipped Italian to someone on the other end of the line—issuing orders, coordinating assets, and moving pieces across a chessboard invisible to ordinary citizens.
After a few tense minutes, Valente clicked the phone off, turned around, and walked slowly toward the center of the room.
"It's done," Valente said quietly.
"What's done?" Davis whimpered from his chair. "What are you going to do to me, Vince?"
"I'm not going to kill you, Arthur," Valente replied coldly. "Death is far too quick and merciful for a traitor like you. Instead, you are going to make a phone call."
Valente gestured to Viktor, who stepped forward and pressed a button on a small digital recorder on the coffee table.
"Call Marcus Vance, the head of the East River syndicate," Valente instructed, tossing Davis's repaired smartphone into the councilman's lap. "Tell him the job at Ilbastion was a complete success. Tell him Carmine is dead, the restaurant is a crater, and you want to meet him in person tonight at the old shipping pier to collect your final payout."
Davis shook his head frantically, tears spilling over his cheeks. "If I do that—if he finds out I'm working with you—he'll skin me alive!"
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"If you don't do that," Valente said, leaning down until his face was inches from the terrified politician's eyes, "I won't even need to touch you. I'll simply hand these audio recordings of our conversation, along with your offshore bank routing numbers, directly to the federal prosecutor's office by midnight. You'll spend the rest of your natural life in a maximum-security federal penitentiary. Choose your poison, Arthur."
Davis swallowed hard, his chest heaving. Realizing he had absolutely no escape route left, he picked up the phone with trembling fingers and dialed the number.
