Chapter 5 - THE TRAITOR’S WATCH
The silver light from the desk lamp glinted off the polished gold frame of the Rolex Submariner on Marcus Hale’s wrist.
The face of the watch was deep, oceanic blue.
Adrian didn't flinch. He didn't reach for a weapon. He simply stood between Marcus’s gun and the sofa where Grace and Lily rested, his dark eyes locked onto his oldest friend.
“It wasn't Thomas DeLuca,” Adrian said quietly.
Marcus didn't lower the gun. His face was devoid of emotion—a cold, calculated mask that Adrian had trusted for twenty years.
“Thomas provided the gun,” Marcus said, his voice flat and practical. “And the money to pay off the tailors. But I was the one who carried it into the bridal suite twenty minutes before Vivian walked in.”
Grace let out a muffled gasp, pulling Lily tighter against her chest.
Adrian looked at Marcus’s watch. “Lily didn't see Thomas in the hallway. She saw you.”
“Children notice everything,” Marcus quoted softly, a bitter smile touching his lips. “I told you that upstairs.”
“Why, Marcus?” Adrian asked. His voice wasn't angry. It was heavy with a deep, profound sorrow. “We built this empire together. My father trusted you. I trusted you with my life.”
“Your father was a visionary, Adrian!” Marcus snapped, his calm composure breaking for a fraction of a second. “Arthur Cross understood that peace is an illusion! He knew that the DeLucas were snakes who would bite us the moment we turned our backs! And what did you do when he died? You tried to turn us into businessmen! You tried to marry their daughter and share our ports!”
“The war was killing us, Marcus!” Adrian said sternly. “We lost twenty men last year alone! Sons, brothers, fathers! For what? A few shipping blocks in Milwaukee?”
“It was our territory!” Marcus shouted quietly, glancing toward the closed door. “Thomas DeLuca understood what you refused to see. He knew that neither family would ever truly accept peace. So we made a deal. We plant the gun, we kill you at the head table, blame Vincent DeLuca, and Thomas takes over his father's empire while I take over yours. Two strong men who know how to rule with iron, instead of two weak children begging for peace.”
Marcus raised the pistol, aiming it directly at Adrian’s forehead.
“It’s nothing personal, Adrian,” Marcus whispered. “You were a brother to me. But you became soft. And this girl... this maid and her brat... they’re loose ends I can’t leave behind.”
“You touch them,” Adrian said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and demonic that even the gun in Marcus’s hand trembled slightly, “and I will tear your soul out of your chest before I bleed out on this rug.”
Marcus tightened his grip on the trigger. “Goodbye, Adrian.”
CLICK.
The gun did not fire.
Marcus’s eyes widened in horror. He racked the slide furiously, ejecting a live round onto the carpet, and pulled the trigger again.
CLICK.
“Looking for the firing pin?” a rough voice called from the doorway.
Dominic Vance—Adrian’s head of street operations—stepped into the office, holding a tactical shotgun pointed directly at Marcus’s spine. Behind him stood six heavily armed Cross guards.
“I checked your weapon when you came downstairs from the bridal suite, Marcus,” Dominic said coldly. “You looked a little too eager for a wedding day.”
Marcus froze, his face draining of all color. He slowly lowered his useless gun as two guards rushed forward, slamming him onto his knees and kicking his weapon across the floor.
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Adrian didn't move. He stood over his oldest friend, looking down at him with quiet, absolute finality.
“Take him to the basement,” Adrian commanded softly. “And bring Vincent and Thomas DeLuca to the grand library. Now.”
