Chapter 7 - The Cornered Rat—Spencer Harrington’s Final, Pathetic Plea
While Gabriel signaled Mateo to initiate the electronic breach of Vane’s private lower-level vault, I slipped away toward the private gallery corridor to locate the physical inventory catalog.
The corridor was quiet, lined with velvet curtains and muted sconces. As I approached the double doors of the private viewing room, a hand suddenly grabbed my upper arm, yanking me into an alcove.
I gasped, preparing to scream, but a familiar, trembling voice cut through the shadows.
“Shantel! Be quiet, please!”
The mask fell from the man’s face. It was Spencer.
He looked unrecognizable from the immaculate banker who had posed beside me at Cipriani three nights ago. His tuxedo was wrinkled, his hair was disheveled, and dark, purple bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his hands shook uncontrollably.
“Spencer,” I said, my voice dripping with cold disgust as I pulled my arm from his grasp. “Get your hands off me.”
“Shantel, listen to me!” he pleaded desperately, dropping to his knees and trying to grab the hem of my dress. “You don't understand! Costa set me up! He fabricated those loan documents! He’s an animal, Shantel, a mafia butcher! He’s using you to get to Vane’s assets!”
“I saw the documents, Spencer,” I said, stepping back, looking down at him with utter pity and contempt. “I saw your signature. I saw your messages offering me to Vane to wipe out your gambling debts. You sold me like an old piece of furniture.”
“I was desperate!” Spencer sobbed, tears cutting lines through the grime on his face. “Vane was going to break my legs, Shantel! He was going to kill my mother! I had no choice! But you can fix this. Come with me right now. I have a car waiting outside. We can go to the feds, get into witness protection—”
“She isn't going anywhere with you, Harrington.”
The cold, baritone voice echoed down the corridor.
Spencer froze, his face draining of every drop of color.
Gabriel stepped out of the shadows, towering over Spencer like an archangel of death. He removed his mask, his dark eyes burning with pure, unadulterated venom.
“C-Costa...” Spencer stammered, scrambling backward on the carpet until his back hit the wall. “Please... don't kill me... I didn't mean any of it...”
Gabriel stepped forward and casually pressed the heavy sole of his Italian leather shoe against Spencer’s chest, pinning the trembling man to the floor.
“You dragged an innocent woman into your filth,” Gabriel said softly, the quietness of his tone far more terrifying than a shout. “You put a price tag on Julian Vance’s daughter. For that alone, I should bury you under sixty feet of concrete.”
“Gabriel, wait,” I said, putting my hand gently on Gabriel’s arm.
Gabriel looked at me, his jaw clenched tight.
“Don’t kill him here,” I said, looking down at Spencer with absolute finality. “Death is too easy for him. Let him watch everything he ever cared about—his status, his money, his reputation—turn to ash.”
Gabriel held my gaze for a long moment. A slow, dark smirk touched his lips.
“As my lady commands,” Gabriel murmured.
May you like
He removed his foot from Spencer’s chest, leaning down to whisper in the broken man’s ear: “Mateo has already forwarded your complete financial records, offshore accounts, and syndicate communications to the Southern District of New York. The FBI is waiting for you in the lobby, Spencer. Run... if you think you can.”
Spencer scrambled to his feet, crying in terror, and bolted down the service hallway like a frightened animal.
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