Chapter 10 - The Sins of the Syndicate
-10-
Mason Vance stood in front of a massive mahogany desk, pouring himself a glass of amber whiskey from a crystal decanter. He was wearing an expensive charcoal-gray suit—the very same style as the scrap Clara found on the balcony—and his tailored jacket was thrown casually over the back of his chair.
"You're slipping, Mason," Dominic’s voice cut through the room like a falling guillotine.
Mason froze. The whiskey bottle slipped from his fingers, shattering against the edge of the desk, amber liquid splashing across stacks of fraudulent corporate deeds and offshore bank routing forms.
Slowly, deliberately, Mason turned around.
He didn't look terrified. A cold, cynical smile spread across his handsome, patrician face as he saw Dominic standing there with his tactical vest and leveled pistol.
"Dominic," Mason said smoothly, raising his hands slightly in mock surrender. "I must admit, I didn't think you'd figure it out so fast. I thought Hargrove would keep you chasing your tail in that morgue of a mansion until sunrise."
"Where is my son?" Dominic demanded, taking three deliberate steps forward, the muzzle of his Sig Sauer locked dead on Mason’s chest.
"Safe," Mason chuckled, gesturing casually toward a heavy reinforced door at the back of the office. "Sleeping like a little angel after a heavy dose of pediatric sedative. Just like his mother did."
Dominic stopped dead. The air left the room. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," Mason smiled, leaning back against the edge of the desk. "Sarah was getting tiresome, Dominic. She found the ledger three days before the 'ambush.' She threatened to take Noah and leave you, taking half the empire with her in the divorce courts. So, I made a deal with the local syndicate, gave them the convoy route, and let them think it was a turf war. All I had to do was make sure the car slowed down at mile marker 42."
Clara watched Dominic. For a second, the billionaire looked like he was about to shatter into a million pieces. The weight of his wife’s murder, the betrayal of his blood, the two years of torturing himself over whether he could have saved her—it all crashed down on his shoulders at once.
"You killed her," Dominic whispered, his voice shaking with a terrifying, hollow resonance. "She trusted you. She called you family."
"Family is just a word people use when they want a discount on power," Mason spat, his eyes flashing with sudden malice. He made a subtle, lightning-fast move toward his right hip, where a backup revolver was holstered beneath his jacket.
He was too slow.
Before Mason’s fingers could even brush the grip of his gun, Clara raised her pistol with both hands and fired.
Bang.
The gunshot deafened the small office, echoing off the corrugated tin walls. The bullet smashed into the wooden desk an inch from Mason’s hand, sending a shower of splinters exploding into his knuckles.
Mason screamed, clutching his bleeding hand. "You little—"
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Dominic closed the distance in a fraction of a second. He slammed the butt of his pistol directly into Mason’s jaw with bone-crushing force. Mason crumpled to the floor like a broken marionette, spitting blood onto the dusty linoleum, completely unconscious before his head even hit the ground.
Dominic stood over him for a long moment, chest heaving, his boots inches from Mason’s face. Slowly, he lowered his weapon, exhaled a ragged breath, and turned toward the reinforced back door.
