Chapter 8 - The Viper's Cage
The air in the basement cellar was thick with dust and the smell of sour wine. Vivienne sat on a wooden chair in the center of the room, her hands tied securely behind her back. Despite two weeks in total darkness, her posture remained rigid, her eyes flashing with malice when the heavy iron door creaked open.
She expected Roman.
Instead, she got me.
I walked into the room wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, my bald head uncovered and held high. I didn’t bring any guards with me; I wanted her to see me alone.
Vivienne laughed, a dry, raspy sound. “Look at you. You look like a convict. Did Roman finally realize what a mistake you are?”
“Keep talking, Vivienne,” I said calmly, pulling up a chair and sitting directly across from her. “Every word that comes out of your mouth just makes it easier for me to do what I came here to do.”
“You think you have power now because you squeezed out a brat?” Vivienne spat, leaning forward as much as her ropes allowed. “You know nothing about this life. My men have Roman’s little pet, Marcus. If I am not released by midnight, they will send his head to your front porch.”
I leaned in close, so close she could see the lack of fear in my eyes. “Your men aren’t loyal to you, Vivienne. They’re loyal to your money. The money you’ve been funneling through the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands.”
Vivienne froze, her breath catching in her throat.
“How do you know about that?” she whispered.
I pulled a tablet out of my bag and turned it toward her. On the screen was a live confirmation of a bank transfer.
“I spent the last forty-eight hours going through your personal records,” I said, a cold smile touching my lips. “You used the same routing codes for thirty years. It took me twenty minutes to figure out your encryption. I just froze every single account attached to your name. Your mercenaries currently have zero dollars in their operating funds. Do you think they’re going to kill Marcus for free? Or do you think they’re going to turn on whoever promised them a paycheck they’ll never see?”
Vivienne’s face drained of what little color it had left. She stared at the screen, her lips trembling. For the first time, she realized she wasn’t dealing with a helpless girl from the streets. She was dealing with someone who could destroy her with a keystroke.
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“You... you bitch,” she hissed.
“I’m a girl from Queens,” I corrected her, standing up and tucking the tablet under my arm. “And by midnight, your men will be begging Roman for mercy. Enjoy the dark, Mother-in-law.”
