My husband had me locked in a windowless subterranean holding room beneath our Chicago estate, claiming I had suffered a severe psychotic break.
O’Leary’s enforcers were efficient. They didn’t speak. They simply took Julian and Evelyn by the arms, their grip firm, unyielding.
They led them out of the subterranean control room, through the silent, dark corridors, towards the heavy freight truck. The exact same vehicle Julian had prepared for me, now waiting for him.
Julian stumbled, his legs barely holding him. Evelyn, her face streaked with tears and soot, glared back at me, her eyes burning with a hatred that promised no end.
“You’ll regret this, Maya!” Evelyn shrieked, as they forced her up the ramp. “This isn’t over! The Montgomerys don’t just disappear!”
O’Leary, standing beside me, watched them go. “They do now,” he murmured, a cold finality in his voice.
He turned to me. “They’ll spend the next twenty years managing non-registered cargo loading docks,” he explained, his eyes fixed on the back of the truck. “In South America. To work off the remaining interest on the stolen bonds.”
The heavy metal door of the freight truck clanged shut, a sound that echoed the closing of a chapter.
Captain Cross and his remaining mercenaries, disarmed and stripped of their gear, were herded into two unmarked vans. They were driven off the property under gunpoint, their faces grim, their careers—and perhaps their lives—now irrevocably ruined.
The estate, once a symbol of opulence and impenetrable power, was now a silent tomb, a monument to a fallen empire.
“That’s the O’Leary code,” Marcus said, turning back to me. “Justice, without the legal entanglements.”
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