Chapter 4 - The Art of the Counter-Strike
The security feed on the massive monitor flickered as one of Preston's men kicked the reinforced steel door of the alleyway one final time, before a low-frequency hum vibrated through the walls. Outside, the shadows shifted.
"They're calling for backup," Genevieve said, scrambling up from the floor, clutching Dante’s jacket tightly around her shoulders. Her panic was beginning to sharpen into something harder, colder—a reflection of the slate and steel surrounding her. "If they breach the back alley, or if they figure out where I am—"
"They won't breach anything," Dante interrupted, walking over to a sleek terminal built into the central island. His fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard with practiced precision. "My perimeter security isn't managed by municipal lock smiths, Genevieve. It’s tied directly to the city’s private electrical grid sub-stations—stations that the Whitmore family happens to use for their downtown real estate holdings."
He hit a final, heavy enter key.
On the monitor, the black SUV idling in the alley suddenly lost all power. The headlights flickered, died, and plunged the alleyway into total darkness save for the dim amber glow of the emergency lights. Shouts of confusion echoed faintly through the audio feed as Preston's men scrambled for flashlights.
"What did you just do?" Genevieve asked, stepping closer to the desk.
"I just cut power to every commercial property Harrison Whitmore owns within a six-block radius," Dante replied smoothly, a faint, humorless smirk touching the corner of his lips. "Including his primary campaign office, his downtown law firm, and the cathedral where five hundred of Chicago's elite are currently sitting in the dark wondering why the groom looks like he's about to vomit."
Genevieve stared at him, a nervous, breathless laugh escaping her lips. "They're going to come looking for me. Preston won't stop. If he loses the company, his father will destroy him."
"Let them come," Dante said, standing up to his full height. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, encrypted satellite phone, sliding it across the glass desk toward her. "Or better yet, let’s go pay them a visit."
Genevieve looked at the phone, then up at Dante. "Go back? To the cathedral?"
"Not the cathedral," Dante corrected her softly, his amber eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. "The quarterly gala for the Chicago Civic Foundation. Harrison is hosting it tonight at the Drake Hotel. Every major judge, senator, and corporate executive in the state is in attendance. They are waiting for the happy couple to make their grand entrance."
He walked over to a side closet, pulling out a heavy black cashmere overcoat and a pair of clean, soft leather driving shoes, setting them neatly beside her bruised feet.
"You can walk back in there as a victim running for her life," Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register that left no room for hesitation. "Or you can walk in beside the man who holds the mortgages on half their commercial empire, with your father’s unedited financial audit on a flash drive, and watch your husband's entire world collapse before midnight."
Genevieve looked down at her bare, scarred feet, then at the heavy coat, and finally at the reflection of her own eyes in the smoked glass wall. The frightened bride who had fled down a cathedral aisle fifteen minutes ago was gone. In her place stood Thomas Hayes's daughter.
May you like
She reached down, picked up the leather shoes, and slid them onto her feet.
"Let's go," Genevieve said.
