Chapter 3 - THE EMPIRE CRUMBLES
By sunrise, the warmth of the unexpected birthday party had vanished, replaced by the freezing reality of betrayal. Rowan sat in his penthouse suite overlooking the harbor. His phone was finally ringing, but it wasn't with apologies. It was his loyal informant, an old hacker named Vance, confirming Rowan's darkest suspicions.
His underboss, Marcus Thorne, had staged a bloodless coup. While Rowan was waiting in an empty dining room, Marcus had been making visits. He had systematically bought out the capos, seized control of the offshore accounts, and redirected the freight shipments to his own shell companies. They had decided that a man in a wheelchair couldn't lead the Boston underworld. They didn't just want to dethrone the Frost; they wanted to erase him.
"They're coming for you, boss," Vance warned over the encrypted line. "Marcus put out a hit. He knows as long as you're breathing, the old guard might get second thoughts. Get out of the hotel."
Rowan disconnected the call. He wheeled himself toward the window, looking at the city he had conquered. They mistook his silence for surrender, his physical limitations for mental weakness. He reached under his desk, retrieving a heavy, matte-black Glock 19 and a thick stack of emergency cash.
Just as he chambered a round, the suite door clicked open. It wasn't an assassin. It was Elara, carrying a tray of coffee, her eyes darting nervously.
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"The front desk manager told the staff to ignore your room," she said quickly, locking the door behind her. "And I saw three men in leather jackets coming up the service elevator. They have guns, Mr. Hale."
Rowan’s eyes narrowed. The waitress had just saved his life. "Elara," he said, his tone icy but urgent. "Leave the tray. We are getting out of here right now."
