Chapter 4 - THE WOLF TRAPPED IN HIS OWN DEN
The silence inside Blackthorn Manor became absolute.
The burning logs in the fireplace seemed to lose their heat.
Beckett stopped pacing.
His massive chest remained frozen mid-breath.
Gideon looked at the yellowed digital document on the screen.
The signature at the bottom was unmistakable.
A sharp, arrogant stroke of black ink.
Callum J. Voss.
Dated three days before Julian Blackwood’s twenty-first birthday.
Julian had been the heir to the Blackwood legacy.
The golden boy of Chicago's old aristocracy.
The only brother Rosalind had ever had.
When Julian died on that burning boat, Rosalind had spent six weeks in a clinic, sedated and broken.
It was Callum who had held her hand.
Callum who had sworn on the graves of his ancestors to find the men responsible.
Callum who had stepped in to merge the shattered Blackwood empire with his rising Voss syndicate.
She had married him because she believed he was her shield against a violent world.
Now, twenty years later, the truth stared at her from glowing pixels.
Her husband had not been her shield.
He had been the architect of her destruction.
"Mom," Gideon spoke, his voice dropping into a register colder than death.
"Give the order."
Beckett reached into his coat and produced a heavy black suppressor.
He began screwing it onto the barrel of his .45 with methodical, mechanical precision.
"I won't use a sniper," Beckett said, his jaw locked tight.
"I'll look him in the eyes."
"I'll make him tell me why Uncle Julian had to die."
Rosalind did not speak for a full minute.
She walked to the window.
She pressed her palm against the freezing glass.
Her reflection looked back at her—pale, elegant, the purple bruise on her cheek a vivid mark of betrayal.
"No," Rosalind whispered.
Both Gideon and Beckett snapped their heads toward her.
"Mother," Gideon protested, stepping forward.
"He murdered your brother to steal your family's name."
"He brought that whore into our lives to laugh at you."
"He doesn't deserve another sunrise."
"Death is a gift," Rosalind said, turning around slowly.
Her voice had no anger in it.
It was worse than anger.
It was total, absolute detachment.
"Death is quick."
"A bullet takes a fraction of a second."
"Callum spent thirty years convincing himself he built this city with his own hands."
"He believes he is a king."
She looked at her three sons—the three deadliest predators in the Midwest.
Men she had raised not with soft lullabies, but with lessons in strategy, leverage, and survival.
"I will not make him a martyr," Rosalind said.
"I will strip his crown piece by piece."
"I want him to watch his accounts empty."
"I want him to watch his captains bend their knees to you, Gideon."
"I want him to realize that without the Blackwood blood in his veins, he is nothing more than a street thug in an expensive suit."
Piers looked up from his monitors.
A dark, savage smile began to spread across the young hacker's lips.
"He just entered his private club on Rush Street," Piers announced, tracking a GPS transponder.
"He's trying to rally his old guard."
"He called a council of the five city captains for 1:00 AM."
Gideon checked his gold watch.
"It is 12:40 AM."
Rosalind straightened her cashmere collar.
"Beckett," she said.
"Yes, Mom?"
"Take forty men to Rush Street."
"Do not draw a weapon unless fired upon."
"Just take the front row."
"Gideon," she continued.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Call the five captains on their private satellite lines."
"Offer them what Callum never could: twenty percent of the deep-water shipping lanes."
"And Piers?"
"Already on it, Mom," Piers said, his fingers clicking furiously.
"I'm streaming the council meeting live to our screens."
Forty minutes later, the heavy brass doors of the St. Jude Club on Rush Street opened.
Callum Voss walked into the cigar-smoke haze of the private boardroom.
He had changed into a fresh black shirt.
His silver hair was combed back, but his skin was gray with exhaustion.
He expected to see his five most trusted lieutenants sitting at the green felt table.
Instead, the five captains were standing against the oak wall like disciplined soldiers.
Sitting in the chairman's leather armchair at the head of the table.
Was Gideon Voss.
Beside the doors, Beckett leaned against the mahogany frame, cleaning his fingernails with a bone-handled trench knife.
Behind the bar, Piers was calmly pouring himself a glass of vintage club soda.
Callum stopped dead in his tracks.
His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts.
"What is this?" Callum demanded, looking at his captains.
"Frank? Jimmy? Why are you standing against the wall?"
Frank, a gray-haired mobster who had taken three bullets for Callum in the nineties, looked down at his shoes.
"The contracts shifted, boss," Frank muttered.
"Gideon signed the new port agreements fifteen minutes ago."
"We work for Blackwood Holdings now."
"I am Callum Voss!" Callum roared, slamming his fist against the mahogany sideboard.
"I made you! I paid for your children's private schools!"
"With my mother's money," Gideon said calmly.
He did not stand up.
He leaned back in the chairman's chair, crossing his long legs.
"You're out, Father."
"You have no territory."
"You have no men."
"And you have exactly six hours before the Commission strips your seat."
Callum’s eyes darted toward Beckett.
Beckett didn't move.
He just stared at his father with eyes that were utterly hollow.
"Beckett," Callum pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation.
"You're my blood. You're my enforcer."
Beckett stopped cleaning his knife.
He looked up.
"Uncle Julian had your blood too, didn't he?"
Callum’s entire body went rigid.
The color drained from his lips until they were blue.
"What... what did you say?" Callum stammered.
Beckett took two slow steps forward.
The floorboards groaned beneath his combat boots.
He leaned down until his mouth was two inches from his father's ear.
"Mom knows," Beckett whispered.
Before Callum could breathe, the heavy glass windows of the club shattered in a hail of automatic gunfire.
Mercenaries in black balaclavas dropped through the skylights on tactical ropes.
May you like
Sloane Mercer's voice crackled through the club's emergency PA system:
"Kill them all! Leave no Voss alive!"
