Chapter 7 - The Return of the Boss
The rain was coming down in sheets when I stepped out of the shadows of downtown San Diego and into the underground parking garage of the Reyes Corporation tower.
The security guard at the gate didn't even have time to reach for his panic button. I slipped behind his booth, put him in a swift, silent sleeper hold, and lowered him gently to the floor before he could make a sound. I took his keycard and stepped directly into the private elevator.
Floor 42. The penthouse.
The elevator chimed softly, the doors sliding open to reveal a sprawling, glass-walled office overlooking the glittering, rain-slicked skyline of the city I had built.
At the far end of the room, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows with a glass of scotch in his hand, was Marcus Kane.
He didn't turn around immediately. He assumed it was just his assistant bringing up the evening reports.
"Leave it on the desk," Marcus said, his voice laced with exhaustion. "And cancel my meetings for tomorrow. The feds are sniffing around the shipping docks again."
"The feds always sniff around where they aren't wanted," I said.
Marcus froze. The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the polished marble floor, amber liquid splashing across his expensive Italian leather shoes. Slowly, mechanically, he turned around.
His face drained of all color, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated horror as if he were staring face-to-face with a creature risen straight from the grave.
"D-Damian..." he stammered, stumbling backward until his spine hit the glass wall. "No... that's impossible. We watched you die. The poison..."
"Was slow enough for me to remember every single face in that room," I said, stepping forward out of the shadows. The harsh fluorescent light caught the scar tissue forming along my jawline. "Especially yours, Marcus."
Marcus frantically reached inside his jacket for his shoulder holster, his hand trembling so violently he could barely wrap his fingers around the grip of his pistol.
Before he could clear leather, I raised the 1911 and fired.
Crack.
The bullet caught him squarely in the right shoulder. Marcus screamed, collapsing hard onto his knees, clutching his bleeding arm as blood pooled across the white marble.
"You spent fifteen years standing at my right hand," I said, walking slowly toward him until I stood directly over him, casting a long, dark shadow across his broken form. "I gave you power, wealth, and respect. And you sold me out for a seat at Julian's table."
"He... he offered me half the empire!" Marcus choked out, tears of pain and terror streaming down his face as he looked up at me. "You were getting soft, Damian! You spared the port inspector's family! You were losing your edge!"
"No, Marcus," I whispered, pressing the cold barrel of the pistol directly against his forehead. "I wasn't losing my edge. I just trusted the wrong dog."
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Before I could pull the trigger, the double doors behind me burst open.
Julian Reyes strode into the room flanked by four armed enforcers, his gun already drawn—and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing over his chief lieutenant.
