Chapter 4 - The Syndicate’s Ghost
The private penthouse elevator descended eighty floors in absolute silence.
Lazero stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Callie, his dark gaze locked on the reflective brass doors. He could feel the radiating warmth of her bare shoulder inches from his arm, along with the rhythmic, steady pulse of someone whose heart rate hadn’t jumped a single beat after threatening a syndicate Don with a broken wine bottle.
"You have five minutes to tell me who you really are," Lazero broke the silence, his tone low, gravelly, and stripped of patience. "Or we don't go back to your apartment. We go to the warehouse on Pier 9."
Callie didn't flinch. She kept her chin high, looking at her own emerald reflection. "Pier 9 is where you interrogate informants who run their mouths to the feds, Lazero. If I wanted you behind bars or dead, you wouldn't have survived your second year running the Southside."
Lazero turned fully toward her, cornering her against the polished wall of the elevator cab. He was a massive man, broad-shouldered and lethal, his tattooed throat flexing as he loomed over her. Yet she didn't shrink back an inch. Her amber eyes met his with an unsettling, predatory calm.
"I pulled your background check thirty minutes before we left my office," Lazero whispered, his breath brushing her ear. "Callie Garrison. Born in Toledo, Ohio. Associates degree in accounting. No criminal record, no siblings, no social media. Clean as polished glass." He leaned in closer, his thumb rising to trace the sharp curve of her jawline. "Nobody in our line of work is clean. You’re a ghost."
"A ghost who just saved you three point two million dollars," she replied, her lips parting slightly. "And likely saved your syndicate from an internal coup tonight."
Before he could demand another answer, the elevator chimed, opening into the private underground parking garage.
The garage was dimly lit, rows of concrete pillars casting long, ominous shadows over high-end sports cars. Lazero’s armored Maybach stood idling near the center lane, its headlights cutting through the damp haze. His chief enforcer, Viktor, stood by the rear passenger door, scanning the perimeter with a submachine gun tucked under his overcoat.
"Mr. Stone," Viktor called out, his posture stiffening as they approached. "We need to move. Venturo’s convoy cleared out fast, but two black SUVs are sitting on the perimeter of the district. They’re shadowing the block."
"Get us out of here," Lazero commanded, guiding Callie into the back of the armored vehicle.
As the heavy doors slammed shut and the locks engaged, Lazero took out a secure tablet, typing rapidly into an encrypted search database reserved only for top syndicate bosses. He inputted Callie’s biometric photo from the dinner table.
The screen flashed red: ACCESS RESTRICTED — LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE REQUIRED.
Lazero’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Level 5 clearance? That’s reserved for the founding families of the Continental Commission." He slowly turned the screen to face her. "You aren't a cop. Cops can't lock down syndicate files."
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Callie crossed her legs, the slit in her emerald gown sliding back to reveal the smooth curve of her thigh—and the matte-black ceramic blade strapped firmly to her ankle.
"I told you, Mr. Stone," she said softly, staring out into the neon blur of the city streets. "You've been looking for traitors on your ledger. But the real rot in your house started long before Venturo Holmes decided to skim your garbage."
