Chapter 3 - The Thorne Syndicate
Inside the grand oak-paneled study of the Beacon Hill manor, the air smelled of vintage leather, gunpowder, and burning cedar.
Dominic stood before a wall of glowing surveillance monitors, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing scarred forearms.
His chief of intelligence, Leo Rossi, tossed a thick leather dossier onto the mahogany desk.
“We intercepted the communication relay originating from Vivienne Thorne’s private penthouse thirty minutes after the raid,” Leo reported.
“Her father, Senator Marcus Thorne, mobilized three private security squads to eliminate all survivors at The Apex.”
Dominic picked up a crystal tumbler of scotch, swirling the amber liquor without taking a sip.
“The Senator wanted to consolidate my shipping terminals under the guise of an emergency corporate receivership,” Dominic said coldly.
“He believed that if I died tonight, Vivienne would inherit fifty-one percent of the port logistics under our prenuptial agreement.”
Clara sat on the leather sofa near the fireplace, holding a porcelain mug of hot chamomile tea that the staff had brought her.
She listened to the two men dismantle the political and corporate conspiracy with chilling precision.
“They didn't just want your shipping lines, Dominic,” Leo continued, tapping an encrypted tablet.
“Senator Thorne has been laundering foreign capital through the Boston Harbor for six years.”
“Your logistics audit was scheduled for next Tuesday; you were two days away from uncovering sixty million dollars in illicit transfers.”
Dominic crushed the crystal glass in his bare hand, letting the shards and scotch fall onto the Persian rug without flinching.
The blood from his palm dripped onto the stone hearth, but his eyes were fixed on the dossier before him.
“Vivienne sat at my table, wore my family’s heirloom diamonds, and smiled while her father’s hitmen loaded their magazines.”
He turned toward Clara, his gaze softening as he took a clean linen cloth to wipe the blood from his hand.
“You threw yourself into the crossfire to stop a murder, Clara.”
“Do you know what the Thorne family does to witnesses who disrupt their operations?”
“They erase them,” Clara answered quietly, looking into the crackling flames of the hearth.
“They make them disappear into the harbor, just like they did to my father ten years ago.”
Dominic froze, his hand stopping mid-motion as the name Montgomery echoed through his mind.
He walked slowly toward the sofa, towering over her with an intensity that took her breath away.
“Your father was Jonathan Montgomery?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous frequency.
“The founder of the Montgomery Harbor Wharf Company?”
Clara looked up, tears shimmering in her eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“The man everyone in this city called a ruined gambler who drowned in his own debts.”
Dominic closed his eyes for a long second, a terrifying realization clicking into place like the hammer of a revolver.
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“Your father was never a gambler, Clara.”
“And he didn't drown by accident.”
