Chapter 6 - The Traitor’s Banquet
Three days later, the Hayes compound had transformed from a fortified recovery ward into the war room of the Midwestern underworld.
Penny sat propped up in a plush leather armchair by the master bedroom’s bay window, wearing a soft, emerald-green cashmere robe that Declan had personally ordered from Saks Fifth Avenue. Her swelling had subsided significantly, though the deep plum bruises around her cheekbone remained as a violent testament to her ordeal. Her right arm rested in a sleek black sling, but her left hand was dancing over the keys of an encrypted laptop balanced on a custom tray table.
Across from her sat Declan, wearing an immaculate three-piece charcoal suit. On the coffee table between them lay three thick dossiers stamped with the seal of the Chicago Syndicate Commission.
“Look at this transaction,” Penny said, her voice steady and sharp, the brilliant forensic accountant completely taking over the injured victim. She turned the screen toward Declan. “Vance wasn't working alone. The transfers from the dummy accounts in Zurich show matching split-ledger signatures. See this hash code?”
Declan leaned forward, his eyes scanning the data. “That’s not Julian’s signature.”
“No,” Penny said, her gray-blue eyes narrowing with cold intelligence. “It belongs to Marco Bellini. The head of the West Side territory.”
Declan’s jaw set into stone. “Bellini has been sitting on the council for twenty years. He was at my father’s funeral.”
“He was also the one who authorized the logistics security contracts for the Vance shipping lines last month,” Penny noted, clicking through three layers of encrypted sub-ledgers. “Declan, Julian didn't have the stomach to organize this alone. Bellini promised Julian that if he took my laptop and wiped my trail, Bellini would back Julian’s claim to the northern shipping lanes at the Friday summit.”
Declan stood up slowly. He walked over to the armchair, bending down to place a warm kiss against the crown of Penny’s head. The scent of her almond shampoo filled his senses, grounding him against the violent tempest brewing in his blood.
“You did all this while running a fever of ninety-nine point five,” Declan murmured, his voice thick with admiration.
Penny looked up, a soft, rare blush tinting her bruised cheeks. “I don't like unfinished business, Mr. Hayes.”
“Declan,” he corrected gently, brushing his fingers against her jawline.
“Declan,” she murmured, leaning slightly into his touch. The vulnerability that passed between them was electric, a fragile bridge built over years of unvoiced longing.
“The Five Families have demanded an emergency council meeting tonight at the Union League Club,” Declan said, stepping back toward the full-length mirror to adjust his cufflinks. “They think we’re holding an inquiry into Julian’s disappearance. They think I’ve overstepped my authority by shutting down the transit lines.”
Penny’s eyes widened with concern. “Declan... Bellini will have his entire crew there. If you walk into the Union League Club alone, they could call for a vote of no confidence. Under the old syndicate bylaws, if three families declare you unstable, they can authorize an open contract.”
Declan turned to her, a chilling, regal confidence radiating from his posture. He picked up his overcoat.
“They think I’m walking in alone, Penny. But they don't know what I have.”
“What do you have?”
Declan walked back to her chair, knelt on one knee so they were eye to eye, and took her left hand in his, raising it to his lips to press a tender kiss against her knuckles.
“I have the smartest mind in Chicago,” Declan whispered. “I have your numbers. And tonight, I’m going to show the Five Families what happens when someone attempts to assassinate the future queen of this syndicate.”
Penny’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Future queen?”
May you like
Declan stood up, towering over her with undisputed majesty. “Get some rest, sweetheart. When I come back tonight, Bellini’s territory will belong to you.”
***
