Chapter 10
The heavy oak doors of the penthouse clicked shut, sealing Vivienne’s fate inside. Stallone walked down the softly lit, plush-carpeted hallway, his men falling silently into step behind him. The air was cool, smelling of ozone and impending victory. He had reclaimed his empire in less than an hour, executing a decade of meticulously planned vengeance with flawless precision.
Stallone reached the private elevator at the end of the hall. One of his guards stepped forward and pressed the call button. The polished steel doors slid open silently, and Stallone stepped inside, adjusting his cuffs.
"Take the contracts directly to the vault downtown," Stallone ordered the man holding the steel briefcase. "Have the accountants begin the liquidations immediately. By sunrise, I want the Cross name erased from every corporate registry in the state."
"Understood, Boss," the guard nodded respectfully as the elevator descended rapidly toward the underground parking garage.
Stallone leaned back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He felt the phantom ache of old bullet wounds, the physical toll of a ten-year exile. He had returned from the grave, and the underworld would tremble by morning when the news broke.
The elevator chimed, arriving at the subterranean garage. The doors slid open to reveal a fleet of armored black SUVs waiting, their engines purring quietly in the concrete cavern. Stallone stepped out, moving toward the lead vehicle.
Suddenly, a sharp, electronic ringtone echoed through the cavernous garage.
Stallone stopped. He frowned, reaching into his pocket. It wasn't his phone. The sound was coming from the black leather folder—the one he had thrown at Vivienne, which Arthur had discreetly retrieved and handed back to him before he left the ballroom.
Stallone opened the folder. Taped to the inside of the back cover was a burner phone, its screen glowing brightly in the dim light. It was ringing.
Stallone’s men instantly drew their weapons, forming a tight defensive perimeter around him, their eyes scanning the concrete pillars for threats. Stallone held up a hand, silencing them. He stared at the burner phone. Only three people in the world knew how to reach him through this specific encrypted network, and two of them were dead.
With a calm, steady hand, Stallone answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear.
"Talk," Stallone commanded.
For a moment, there was only static on the line. Then, a low, raspy voice spoke, sending a sudden, involuntary chill down Stallone's spine.
"Did you really think taking the girl's money would make us even, Sylvester?" the voice whispered. "Evelyn Cross didn't act alone ten years ago. And neither did I."
Stallone’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
"Who is this?" Stallone demanded softly.
"Look in the trunk of the third SUV," the voice replied, followed by the click of a disconnected line.
May you like
Stallone slowly lowered the phone. He turned his gaze toward the third armored vehicle in his motorcade. The garage was dead silent, save for the hum of engines.
"Open it," Stallone ordered his men, his voice laced with a new, dark anticipation. The war wasn't over. It had only just begun.
