Chapter 38
The forty-eight-hour deadline arrived. Gabriel and Rachel returned to the rusted foundry, flanked by their enforcers. Victor Vance sat at the polished table, looking supremely confident, unaware of the digital poison coursing through his empire.
"I trust you have come to accept my generous offer," Victor said, his dry voice echoing in the cavernous space.
"We have come to give you our answer," Rachel said, stepping forward, her posture rigid and unbreakable. She placed a sleek tablet on the table and slid it toward the old king.
Victor frowned, picking up the tablet. His eyes widened as he read the scrolling data. The virus had executed perfectly. His global shipping routes were in chaos, freighters were stranded in hostile ports, and his primary liquidity pools were hopelessly locked in bureaucratic limbo. His empire was suffocating.
"What have you done?" Victor rasped, his aristocratic composure shattering.
"We have severed the serpent's head," Gabriel stated, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "Your operations are paralyzed. Your investors are panicking. And within twenty-four hours, the federal authorities will receive an anonymous tip detailing every illicit cargo manifest your ships are currently holding."
Victor’s face flushed with impotent rage. He realized he had fatally underestimated the new rulers of Chicago. They hadn't fought him with bullets; they had fought him with absolute, devastating intelligence.
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"You haven't won," Victor spat, standing up shakily. "I will rebuild. I will return."
"If you ever step foot in my city again," Gabriel warned, stepping close enough for Victor to see the merciless promise in his eyes, "I won't use a virus. I will use a bullet. Take your broken ships and leave."
