Chapter 7 - CHECKMATE IN BLOOD
The massive screens flickered to life. The high-definition footage was undeniable. The entire cartel leadership, the foreign buyers, and the traitorous mercenaries watched in stunned silence as the interior of Marcus's penthouse was projected fifty feet high.
The audio fed through the warehouse’s massive speaker system, booming with crystal clarity. The crack of the leather belt echoed like thunder.
"You are going to learn how to respect this house," Marcus's snarling voice filled the room. The video showed him cowardly striking a defenseless woman, his face contorted in pathetic, ugly rage. It showed him begging and whimpering the moment Vincent had kicked the doors open. It laid bare his absolute lack of honor, his cowardice, and his weakness.
In the criminal underworld, brutality was common, but cowardice was an unforgivable sin. The cartel bosses, men who respected only iron discipline and true strength, looked at Marcus with sudden, profound disgust. The mercenaries who had betrayed Vincent for Marcus now shifted uncomfortably, realizing they had hitched their wagons to a pathetic, unstable fraud.
"Turn it off! Shoot the screens!" Marcus screamed, his face purple with rage and humiliation. He drew his gun, aiming wildly at the AV booth. "Kill her!"
But his men hesitated. The illusion of his power was shattered.
Vincent stepped out from behind the steel pillar on the gantry, looking down at Marcus like a god of judgment.
"It's over, Marcus," Vincent’s voice boomed, projecting naturally over the silence of the room. "You have no empire. You have no respect. You have nothing."
Marcus, driven entirely mad by the humiliation, let out a primal scream and raised his gun toward Vincent. But he never got the chance to pull the trigger.
The cartel boss, a ruthless man from Sinaloa who had been negotiating with Marcus just moments before, simply drew a silver-plated pistol and shot Marcus in the back of the knee. Marcus screamed, collapsing to the concrete floor.
"We do not do business with cowards who beat wives and betray fathers," the cartel boss said coldly, spitting on the ground near Marcus's writhing body. He looked up at Vincent on the balcony and gave a slow, respectful nod. "The network is yours, Don Vincent. As it always should have been."
Vincent didn't smile. He walked slowly down the metal stairs, his heavy footsteps ringing out. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. He reached Marcus, who was sobbing and clutching his shattered leg, crawling backward across the cold floor.
"Vincent, please, I can make this right, I can give you the money back—" Marcus babbled, tears and snot running down his face.
Vincent looked down at him with utter apathy. He didn't shoot him. He didn't have to.
"Carmine," Vincent called out. The old enforcer stepped from the shadows, his shotgun resting on his shoulder. "Take out the trash. Let the street know what happens to rats."
May you like
As Vincent turned his back, a single, deafening boom echoed through the warehouse, followed by complete silence. Vincent didn't flinch. He walked back up the stairs to the AV booth, where Elena was waiting in the doorway. She was trembling, but her head was held high.
Vincent reached out and gently pulled his daughter into a tight embrace. "You did it," he whispered. "You saved us both."
