Chapter 4 - The Second Traitor
The command center was freezing when we dragged Senator Arthur Vance inside. Two of my security guards shoved him unceremoniously into a high-backed leather chair in front of the primary console. Arthur was sweating profusely now, his expensive suit wrinkled, his hair disheveled. He looked less like a powerful politician and more like a broken, pathetic old man.
“Sit down and shut up,” I told him, tossing him onto the chair.
I turned to Vincent, who was staring intently at a split-screen monitor showing the estate's interrogation holding cell in the basement.
“Talk to me, Vincent. Who did the patrol unit pull out of the van?”
“Take a look at screen four,” Vincent said, tapping the interface to maximize the basement holding cell feed.
On the screen, a man was handcuffed to a bolted steel chair. He had dark hair slicked back with sweat, a sharp jawline, and wore an expensive Italian designer suit that was now stained with dirt from the estate’s gravel driveway. He was staring directly into the camera lens with a defiant, sneering expression.
My breath hitched.
“Marcus?” I whispered.
The man in the holding cell was Marcus Vance—no, not Arthur’s brother. Marcus Sterling, my own head pastry chef. The man who had worked in my household for four years. The man I trusted to bake every birthday cake, every holiday pastry, every meal that entered my son’s mouth.
“Surprise, boss,” Marcus said through the intercom speaker in the holding cell, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or should I call you Lord Moretti? You thought you ran an impenetrable fortress, didn't you? You thought your money could buy absolute loyalty.”
I walked up to the console, keying the intercom mic. “Marcus. You made his birthday cake for four years. I paid for your mother’s medical treatments in Switzerland. I gave your sister a job when she had a criminal record. Why?”
Marcus laughed bitterly through the speaker. “Gratitude? Loyalty? Is that what you think runs this world, Dominic? You hand out scraps from your golden table and expect us to bow like medieval peasants. Arthur offered me something better than your charity.”
“A prison cell?” I asked coldly.
“A buyout,” Marcus spat. “Arthur promised me twenty million dollars wired to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands once your empire was dismantled by probate court litigation. All I had to do was leave the service door unlocked, provide the exact chemical breakdown of Ethan’s allergy profile, and let Julian into the prep room for three minutes.”
Beside me, Arthur slumped further into his chair, covering his face with his trembling hands. “You fool,” Arthur muttered under his breath. “You absolute fool for talking on an unencrypted line...”
“Shut up, Arthur!” Marcus shouted through the intercom. “Your little plan failed because of a three-year-old girl! A toddler ruined months of planning because she wanted strawberries!”
I stared at the screen, watching the traitor squirm in his handcuffs. A strange, unnatural calmness washed over me. The anger that had been burning in my chest like liquid fire suddenly condensed into a cold, diamond-hard resolve.
They thought they could use my son as a pawn in a corporate war. They thought human life was a negotiable asset on a spreadsheet.
“Vincent,” I said without taking my eyes off the monitor.
“Boss?”
“Contact District Attorney Harrison. Tell him to prepare an immediate, sealed federal indictment for corporate terrorism, attempted assassination of a minor, and conspiracy against Senator Arthur Vance and Marcus Sterling.”
“Already on standby, boss,” Vincent replied, a grim smile touching the corner of his mouth. “Harrison is waiting for your word. The federal marshals are already outside the estate gates.”
“Good. Have them brought in through the service entrance. I don't want the rest of the guests seeing the arrests until the FBI has cleared every single one of them for potential complicity.”
“Understood.”
I turned away from the console and looked down at Arthur Vance. He looked up at me, terror swimming in his eyes.
“Dominic... please,” Arthur whispered, his voice cracking. “We go back years. We’ve worked together. Think of my career... think of my family—”
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“You didn't think of my family when you sent a chemical weapon into my son’s birthday cake, Arthur,” I interrupted, my voice dropping so low it was barely audible. “You signed your own death warrant the moment you stepped onto my property.”
I signaled to the guards. “Take him to the basement holding cell. Put him in the cell right next to Marcus. Let them discuss their corporate merger behind steel bars.”
