Chapter 7 - The Rot at the Core
-7-
The realization hit Dominic like a physical blow to the chest. Mason Vance wasn't just a security chief; he was family—a distant cousin who had bled beside Dominic during the brutal Chicago underworld wars that built the Vale empire.
"Mason," Dominic whispered, the name tasting like poison on his tongue.
"He cleared the perimeter guards fifteen minutes before the breach," the guard stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. "He told us the thermal cameras picked up movement in the eastern woods. We all deployed that way, leaving the nursery completely exposed."
Mrs. Hargrove let out a low, cold chuckle from her seat at the table. It wasn't the laugh of a frightened captive; it was the laugh of someone who knew the game was already won.
"You always were too proud, Dominic," she said, her voice dropping its professional deference entirely. "You built an empire on blood and muscle, thinking you were the king of Chicago. But an empire isn't conquered from the outside. It rots from the inside out."
Dominic didn't look at her. His gaze remained locked on the laptop screen, watching Mason’s face on the playback—cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of loyalty.
"Why?" Dominic asked, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. "I made him a millionaire. I gave him power, protection, a seat at my table."
"Power isn't something you share, Dominic," Mrs. Hargrove sneered. "Mason wanted the freight routes. He wanted the ports. And more importantly... your wife found out about his offshore skimming six months before the ambush on the tollway. She was going to tell you that night in the car."
Clara’s breath hitched. The pieces of the puzzle clicked together with terrifying clarity.
"That's why they ambushed the Mercedes," Clara said, looking between Dominic and the house manager. "It wasn't a rival gang message. It was a hit ordered from inside your own organization. And Noah... Noah was in the back seat. He saw Mason pull the trigger, or he saw his mother look right at him before she died."
"The boy was four," Mrs. Hargrove said dismissively, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. "Who would believe a traumatized infant who screams at shadows? We only needed to keep him locked away until the corporate transfer papers were signed next week. Once Mason legally controls your holding companies, you and your brat won't even own the clothes on your backs."
Dominic raised the Sig Sauer. The muzzle pointed straight between Mrs. Hargrove’s eyes.
The house manager didn't blink. She smiled. "Go ahead, Dominic. Pull the trigger. But if you kill me, you'll never find out which warehouse Mason took your son to. And by sunrise, Noah will be breathing his last breath in a ditch."
The tension in the dining room reached a breaking point. The guards stood frozen, unsure whether to draw their weapons or flee.
Dominic’s finger whitened on the trigger. His breathing was ragged, his entire body shaking with the lethal rage of a caged beast.
Clara stepped forward, gently placing her hand over the barrel of the gun, pushing it down just an inch.
"Don't," Clara whispered, looking into Dominic’s bloodshot eyes. "If you kill her, we lose our only leverage. She wants you to snap. She wants you to go to prison so Mason can walk away clean."
May you like
Dominic looked down at Clara’s hand, then slowly lowered the weapon. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath, his face hardening back into the mask of a Chicago kingpin who had just decided to go to war.
"Lock her in the basement vault," Dominic ordered without breaking eye contact with Mrs. Hargrove. Then, turning to his guards, he barked: "Get the tactical gear. We're going hunting."
