Chapter 19: Checkmate
“Wait! Marcus!” Silas screamed, abandoning all dignity as he lunged forward.
Miller stepped into his path, slamming the butt of his rifle into Silas’s chest, sending the man crashing backward over the leather seats.
Marcus paused at the top of the hydraulic stairs. The freezing wind whipped through his hair. He looked down at the syndicate bosses waiting patiently on the tarmac. They tipped their heads to him in a silent, chilling acknowledgment of the transaction.
Marcus looked back into the cabin one last time.
Silas was scrambling to his feet, blood dripping from his lip, his eyes wide with the realization that he had played a game of chess against a grandmaster and lost every single piece.
“This is your fault!” Silas screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Marcus. “You took my birthright! You pushed me into the shadows!”
“I gave you a choice ten years ago to walk away with millions,” Marcus corrected him, his voice echoing over the roar of the helicopter blades. “You chose to come back. You chose to target a pregnant woman. Khloe was the architect of your ruin, Silas. I’m just the delivery boy.”
Marcus walked down the stairs, flanked by his security team.
As soon as Marcus stepped off the tarmac and into his waiting armored vehicle, the syndicate men boarded the Gulfstream. The hydraulic stairs retracted. The cabin door sealed shut.
Inside the SUV, Marcus poured himself a glass of water from the minibar, his hands shaking slightly as the adrenaline began to leave his system.
Miller slid into the driver’s seat and looked in the rearview mirror. “The plane is cleared for takeoff, Mr. Thorne. It’s heading for international airspace over the Atlantic.”
“Good,” Marcus said, staring out the tinted window as the Gulfstream taxied down the runway.
He knew Silas would never land in Europe. The syndicate men would ensure Silas Thorne became nothing more than a ghost story, a body dropped into the deepest trench of the ocean where no amount of money or legacy could save him.
The threat was neutralized. The board was cleared. The war was over.
Marcus pulled out his phone and dialed Dr. Vance’s private line. It rang twice before the doctor answered.
“Richard. Is she safe?” Marcus asked, holding his breath.
“She’s asleep, Marcus,” Richard’s exhausted voice came through the speaker. “The cramping stopped. The baby’s heart rate is strong and steady. We got lucky. She’s a fighter.”
A tear slipped down Marcus’s bruised cheek, dropping onto his blood-stained shirt. The titan of industry, the ruthless billionaire who had just handed his own brother over to assassins, covered his face with his hand and wept with pure, unadulterated relief.
“Tell her it’s done,” Marcus choked out. “Tell her she never has to look over her shoulder again.”
“I will,” Richard said softly. “Where are you going, Marcus?”
May you like
Marcus looked out at the city skyline, the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon, casting the skyscrapers in brilliant gold.
“To a hotel,” Marcus replied. “She asked me for space. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving to her that I can listen.”
