Chapter 9 - THE TAINTED CURE
The convoy of four armored Suburbans roared down Interstate 93 toward the Boston docks.
Sloan sat in the command vehicle, reviewing digital feeds from Pier 9.
Sixteen security cameras covered the rusted warehouse where the council was gathering.
Outside the perimeter, forty armed Chicago mercenaries stood watch in the rain.
Inside, twelve council elders sat around an iron table beneath the sodium lights.
At the head of the table sat Vincent Marchetti.
Seventy years old.
Silver hair slicked back.
Wearing a five-thousand-dollar cashmere coat over his tailored suit.
Beside him sat Don Vance from Chicago, looking furious and desperate.
Sloan tapped his earpiece.
“Bishop. What’s the status at the house?”
Bishop’s voice crackled over the radio.
“All secure, boss. Dr. Alva is with Mrs. Marchetti in the master suite. Cora is resting in the medical wing under guard.”
“Keep the snipers on the roof,” Sloan ordered. “If a bird flies over that fence without a clearance transponder, shoot it down.”
“Understood, Mr. Marchetti.”
The Suburbans screeched to a halt outside Pier 9.
Sloan stepped out into the freezing harbor wind.
He wore no coat.
Just a dark charcoal suit, his white cuffs pristine, his signet ring gleaming under the dock lights.
Behind him, twelve of his personal enforcers stepped out, carrying automatic shotguns.
Sloan kicked open the corrugated iron door of the warehouse.
The heavy metal slammed against the wall with a thunderous BOOM.
The twelve council members jumped in their seats.
Don Vance reached for his inner pocket.
Sloan didn't even draw his weapon.
He walked down the center aisle between the stacked wooden shipping crates, his leather soles clicking rhythmically against the oil-stained concrete.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Sloan said smoothly.
Vincent didn't flinch.
He leaned back in his iron chair, puffing on a Cuban cigar.
“You’re late, Nephew,” Vincent drawled. “We were just discussing your retirement.”
Sloan stopped at the opposite end of the table.
He rested his palms flat on the cold iron.
“Retirement requires an heir, Uncle. Luckily, my wife is carrying one.”
Murmurs of shock rippled through the twelve elders.
Vincent’s smile vanished.
His cigar remained suspended halfway to his mouth.
“Delphine?” Vincent sneered. “That common little nurse? You brought that runaway back into this bloodline?”
“She didn't run,” Sloan said, his voice dropping an octave into a register that made the nearest councilman shiver. “She was pushed. By a fabricated report signed by your private physician.”
Vincent scoffed, waving his hand dismissively.
“You’re hallucinating, boy. She was an incompetent girl who killed a patient. Elena Vance was the future of this family. And you currently have Elena locked in a basement like an animal!”
Don Vance stood up, slamming his fists on the table.
“Where is my daughter, Sloan?” the Chicago boss roared. “Release her tonight or my syndicates will cut off every freight line between here and Detroit!”
Sloan turned his head slowly toward Don Vance.
“Your daughter poisoned my nineteen-year-old sister with walnut extract and digitalis yesterday, Vance.”
Don Vance blinked, stunned.
“What?”
“Elena tried to assassinate Cora Marchetti to force this meeting,” Sloan said, pointing at Vincent. “On your orders, Uncle.”
“That's a lie!” Vincent shouted, rising from his chair. “Cora had a food allergy attack! Elena had nothing to do with it!”
Sloan pulled a black tablet from his pocket and tossed it onto the center of the iron table.
A video played.
High-definition surveillance footage from the kitchen of the Copper Lantern.
The camera showed Elena Vance’s bodyguard, Greco, paying off a prep cook behind the ice machine.
The cook handed Greco a small glass vial labeled Cold-Pressed Walnut Concentrate.
Then the footage cut to the corridor outside the private dining room.
Greco drizzling the liquid onto Cora’s steak reduction while the server stepped into the pantry.
Don Vance stared at the screen.
His face turned the color of ash.
“Greco...” Vance whispered. “Elena didn't tell me about this.”
“Because Elena wasn't working for you, Vance,” Sloan said coldly. “She was working for Vincent. They planned to eliminate Cora, blame the Moretti family, and use your Chicago army to seize my docks while I was burying my sister.”
The council room went deathly silent.
Every elder looked at Vincent.
Vincent’s hand drifted toward his lapel.
Before his fingers could touch the holster, the sound of a phone vibrating broke the tension.
It was Sloan’s phone.
He answered without looking.
“Speak.”
Static crackled over the line.
Then—
Gunfire.
Screams.
The sound of shattering safety glass.
Dr. Alva’s terrified voice shrieked over the speaker:
May you like
“Sloan! They bypassed the gate! They’re inside the master wing! Delphine—they took Delphine!”
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