Chapter 6 - The Architecture of Revenge
The carbon-fiber silencer gleamed under the sputtering filament of the overhead bulbs.
Julian Vance took two measured steps across the slick concrete floor, his boots making no sound against the damp grime.
His eyes were the exact slate-gray as Hazel’s, but stripped of all restraint, burning with a feverish, manic clarity.
Callum did not step backward.
He shifted his stance by half an inch, placing his broad shoulder squarely between Julian’s gun barrel and Hazel’s chest.
“Put the piece down, Vance,” Callum said, his voice flat, devoid of fear.
“You didn’t spend ten years building a corporate pedigree just to take a murder rap in an abandoned municipal pump house.”
Julian chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that was swallowed by the roar of the lake beating against the exterior masonry.
“A murder rap, Callum?”
“Who do you think called the federal strike team to Hazel’s brownstone?”
“The Department of Justice believes Arthur Sullivan’s son fled the scene of a federal warrant and took his personal secretary hostage.”
“When they find your body washed up on the rocks tomorrow morning, they’ll call it a gangland execution by the Bertinelli syndicate.”
“And my sweet little sister?”
Julian’s eyes flicked to Hazel, who had stepped out from behind Callum’s arm, her face pale under the harsh yellow bulb.
“She’ll be the traumatized survivor who finally delivered Arthur Sullivan’s private journals to the United States Attorney.”
“Julian, stop,” Hazel said, her voice shaking with controlled intensity.
“This wasn’t the agreement.”
“We agreed to use the legal system.”
“We agreed to let the Department of Justice seize the shipping lanes, seize the accounts, and put the Sullivan name into federal bankruptcy court.”
Julian’s jaw tightened, the skin across his high cheekbones stretching taut.
“Bankruptcy court?”
“Did our father get a court hearing before Arthur Sullivan chained the warehouse doors shut?”
“Did Daniel Reed get thirty days to appeal while the timber collapsed on top of his lungs?”
“He died screaming in the dark, Hazel!”
“And you spent three years buying tailored suits for his murderer’s son!”
“He isn’t Arthur!” Hazel shouted, her voice echoing off the vaulted concrete ceiling.
“I looked through every single bank transfer, Julian.”
“I audited every contract from the moment Callum took over the company three years ago.”
“Callum didn’t know about the fire until tonight.”
Julian raised the weapon until the dark muzzle aligned directly with Callum’s forehead.
“He carries the blood, Hazel.”
“That makes him guilty enough.”
Callum watched Julian’s trigger finger tighten on the knurled metal.
The mechanics of violence were simple.
At eight paces, a silenced nine-millimeter bullet moved at roughly nine hundred feet per second.
Callum could draw his Kimber, but Julian had the drop.
If Callum moved first, Hazel was directly in the line of fire.
“Where is Frank?” Callum asked quietly, his eyes locked onto Julian’s pupils.
Julian smiled thinly.
“Your old dog in the Ford sedan?”
“He’s sleeping in the front seat with two crushed windpipes.”
“My associates from the Bertinelli family handled him the second your car pulled off Lake Shore Drive.”
A searing, ice-cold fury detonated in Callum’s chest.
Frank Moretti had taught him how to throw a punch when Callum was eight years old.
Frank had carried him out of a burning limousine when the North Side factions ambushed his father’s convoy in 2012.
“You allied with the Bertinellis,” Callum whispered, his voice deadly calm.
“The very people who paid Arthur to burn your father’s yard.”
Julian flinched, an involuntary twitch at the corner of his left eye.
“What did you say?”
Callum took a deliberate step forward, ignoring the black hole of the barrel pointed at his skull.
“You think Arthur burned that yard for fun?”
“Arthur Sullivan was a brute, but he was a businessman.”
“The counterfeit Canadian timber wasn’t Arthur’s shipment.”
“It belonged to Don Carmine Bertinelli.”
“Carmine paid Arthur two hundred thousand dollars to eliminate your father because Daniel Reed refused to take Bertinelli’s bribe.”
Hazel turned sharply, staring at Callum with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“That wasn’t in Arthur’s journals,” Hazel whispered.
“No,” Callum replied, never breaking eye contact with Julian.
“Because my father was too proud to write down that he acted as Carmine Bertinelli’s paid arsonist.”
“The contract is in a safe-deposit box at Northern Trust on LaSalle Street.”
“Under the name Reed-Sullivan Memorial Trust.”
“Arthur set it up three weeks before he died.”
Julian’s hand began to tremble, the weapon wavering between Callum’s eyes and his chest.
“You’re lying.”
“You’re inventing stories to save your miserable neck!”
“Shoot me and find out,” Callum said, taking another heavy step forward.
“Shoot me, Julian.”
“And then walk back to Don Carmine with blood on your hands, knowing you just executed the only man who was preparing to wipe the Bertinelli family off the map of Chicago.”
Julian’s finger contracted on the trigger.
May you like
Hazel lunged forward without hesitating, throwing her body into Julian’s right arm just as the suppressed pistol coughed with a muffled snap.
The bullet struck Callum high in the right shoulder, spinning him backward against the iron pipes as blood sprayed across the damp concrete.
