Chapter 22 - The Traitor's Bargain In The Cell
Inside a subterranean federal holding cell, Vivienne Beaumont sat perfectly straight on a thin iron cot. Her breathtaking emerald couture dress had been stripped away, replaced by the dull, degrading orange of a high-security prison uniform. The broken ribs from Marcus’s ruthless kick made every breath feel like swallowing crushed glass, but the toxic pride and arrogance of the criminal matriarch remained entirely unbroken.
The heavy steel door of solitary confinement shrieked open. It wasn't a federal agent or a public defender who stepped into the dim light; it was Victor Silva, the cartel’s highest-ranking shadow operative and the NCA Director’s personal liaison. Victor wore an impeccably tailored suit, walking with the absolute confidence of a man who held the power of life and death. He tossed a thin manila folder onto the rusted metal desk in front of Vivienne.
"Your empire is ash, Vivienne," Victor stated coldly, offering zero sympathy. "Preston has been moved to a maximum-security black site. Your weak, pathetic son is panicking. He is preparing to testify on the entire cartel money-laundering structure in exchange for witness protection."
Vivienne didn't blink. Her sharp blue eyes bored into Victor. Maternal love had never been a priority in the Beaumont family; it was merely a business tool. "What do you want, Victor?" she hissed, the pain in her chest making her voice sharp and fragmented.
"Director Vance needs the ledger, and the cartel needs a guarantee that Preston will never speak," Victor replied, a cruel smirk touching his lips. "If you sign your own son’s death warrant right now, your Swiss holding accounts remain untouched. Once the heat dies down, we pull you out. If you refuse, both of you die before sunrise."
Vivienne stared at the assassination contract. In her mind’s eye, she saw Preston weeping pathetically on the cream marble floor of the grand ballroom—a weak liability entirely unworthy of the Beaumont name. Without a fraction of hesitation, Vivienne picked up the metal pen and signed her name with sharp, aggressive strokes.
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"Make it look like a suicide," she ordered, her tone as frigid as absolute zero. "And Victor... I want Marcus Reed’s head delivered to me in a box. He ruined my ballroom, and I want him to pay with his blood."
Victor retrieved the contract, nodding in deep satisfaction at the matriarch’s unadulterated ruthlessness. The most devastating betrayals always came from those who shared your blood.
