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27: The Maltese Falconry

ผู้เขียน: Lola's Write
last update ปรับปรุงล่าสุด: 2026-01-09 20:32:05

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

POV: Julian Vane

The "Blue Velvet" was a lounge that time had forgotten. Tucked away in a corner of the city where the neon lights were mostly broken, it was the kind of place where men with heavy accents and heavier coats came to trade secrets they couldn't take to the grave.

I sat in a booth at the back, the red leather cracked and smelling of stale tobacco. I wasn't wearing my charcoal power suit. I was dressed in an old leather jacket and a hoodie, looking like a man who had lost his fortune and was desperate to find a way back in.

I checked my watch. 3:00 AM.

The door opened, letting in a gust of freezing rain and a man who looked like he was made of jagged edges. He was Mediterranean, his skin darkened by a sun that didn't shine in this city, and he carried himself with the quiet, terrifying stillness of a professional killer.

This was Elias Thorne, the primary fixer for the Malta Syndicate.

He slid into the booth across from me. He didn't order a drink. He just looked at me with eyes that were as cold and grey as the North Atlantic.

"The Golden Prince," Thorne said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Vincenzo said you were looking for an exit strategy. I find that hard to believe. I heard you were the one who tamed the Butcher."

"Taming a butcher doesn't mean you want to live in the slaughterhouse," I said, my voice steady, practiced. "Dante is obsessed. He thinks he can turn the Moretti name into a legitimate corporation. He’s going to get us all killed or imprisoned by the end of the year. I want out, Thorne. But I want out with enough capital to never have to look back."

Thorne leaned forward, the scent of expensive clove cigarettes clinging to him. "Vincenzo told us you have the port access codes. The ones that bypass the new automated customs grid Dante installed. If we have those, the East End docks become the most valuable real estate in the world."

"I have them," I said. I pulled a small, battered USB drive from my pocket and set it on the table. I didn't let go of it. "But the price isn't just money. I want a seat in Valletta. I want protection from the Moretti hit squads. If I give you these, Dante will hunt me to the ends of the earth."

Thorne looked at the drive, his fingers twitching. "Vincenzo said you could be trusted because you hate the Morettis as much as he does. He says you haven't forgotten the North End fire."

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my face a mask of bitter resentment. "Vincenzo is a dying man looking for revenge. I’m a living man looking for a future. We’re aligned by necessity, not love."

"Give me the drive," Thorne commanded.

"Give me the confirmation of the transfer to the Swiss account," I countered.

Thorne pulled out a slim encrypted phone and tapped a few keys. A moment later, my own phone buzzed in my pocket. A notification from my offshore bridge account: $5,000,000 Pending.

I pushed the drive across the table.

Thorne snatched it up, his eyes gleaming with a dark, predatory triumph. "You've made a wise choice, Julian. The Old Butcher was right. You’re too smart to die for a husband who treats you like a ledger."

He stood up and vanished into the rain as quickly as he had appeared.

I sat in the booth for a long time, the silence of the lounge closing in around me. The "Poison Codes" were now in the hands of the Syndicate. Within forty-eight hours, they would attempt to run their first shipment through Pier 12. And when they did, the digital signature would trigger a silent alarm I had wired directly into the Department of Justice’s elite task force the one Sarah Vance used to lead before her "fall."

I had just started a war that would end the Malta Syndicate, destroy Vincenzo’s last play, and cement Dante’s empire forever.

But as I stepped out into the rain, I saw a black SUV idling at the curb. The window rolled down, and the cold, obsidian eyes of Marco stared back at me.

"The Boss wants to see you, Julian," Marco said, his hand resting on the door handle. "And he’s not in a corporate mood."

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