Chapter 12 - The Whispers Of A Venomous Betrayal
Far away from the grim,
suffocating walls of the federal penitentiary,
in a decaying,
crime-ridden neighborhood on the outskirts of the city,
Eleanor Davis was currently living her own personal,
inescapable nightmare.
The once proud,
impossibly arrogant socialite,
who used to host extravagant,
thousand-dollar charity dinners,
was now standing behind the sticky,
filthy counter of a discount,
run-down grocery store.
Her expensive,
custom-made designer wardrobe had been completely repossessed years ago,
replaced by an ugly,
faded,
and incredibly itchy polyester uniform shirt that smelled faintly of sour milk and despair.
Her feet,
which were once pampered with weekly,
expensive spa treatments,
now throbbed with a relentless,
stabbing agony after standing on the hard concrete floor for ten exhausting hours a day.
She was scanning cheap,
dented cans of soup for a rude,
impatient customer,
her heavily wrinkled face set in a permanent,
bitter scowl of absolute,
unfiltered hatred.
She hated the awful,
fluorescent lights that highlighted her rapidly aging skin,
she hated the pitiful,
measly paycheck she received every Friday,
but most of all,
she passionately,
violently hated me and my father for casting her down into this miserable,
squalid existence.
As the rude customer finally snatched his plastic bags and stormed out into the rainy night,
the little bell above the dingy glass door chimed,
signaling the arrival of another late-night patron.
Eleanor did not even bother to look up,
too exhausted to fake a polite greeting,
until a crisp,
brand-new hundred-dollar bill was suddenly,
and quietly,
placed onto the scratched checkout counter.
She blinked in surprise,
her greedy eyes immediately locking onto the money,
and she slowly raised her head to look at the man standing before her.
He was a tall,
broad-shouldered man,
wearing a dark,
expensive trench coat,
and a fedora that partially obscured his sharp,
unforgiving features.
"Keep the change, Mrs. Davis,"
the man said softly,
his voice low,
gravelly,
and laced with a dangerous,
unmistakable authority.
Eleanor's breath hitched in her throat,
her hands trembling slightly as she instinctively reached for the large bill,
her desperate,
poverty-stricken mind unable to resist the lure of cash.
"Who are you?"
she demanded,
trying to sound brave,
but her voice wavered pitifully,
betraying her deep,
underlying terror.
"I am a friend of your son,"
the man lied smoothly,
leaning casually against the counter,
glancing around the empty,
depressing store with obvious,
unconcealed disgust.
"Carter has found some very powerful,
very wealthy allies,"
the man continued,
"people who are extremely interested in making Arthur Sterling pay for his numerous,
unforgivable sins."
Eleanor's eyes widened,
a sudden,
ferocious spark of hope igniting in her dark,
venomous heart,
a desperate desire for brutal,
uncompromising revenge taking hold of her senses.
"What do you want from me?"
she whispered,
leaning closer,
terrified that her manager might suddenly appear from the back room and overhear their illicit conversation.
The man reached into the deep pocket of his coat,
pulling out a thick,
heavy envelope,
and slid it slowly across the counter until it rested against Eleanor's trembling fingers.
"Inside this envelope,"
the man explained calmly,
"is fifty thousand dollars in untraceable,
perfectly clean cash,"
"which is merely a small down payment for your valuable services."
Eleanor gasped,
her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird,
as she quickly,
greedily snatched the envelope and shoved it deep into her apron pocket.
"Services?"
she asked breathlessly,
her mind racing with wild,
delusional fantasies of regaining her lost mansion,
her expensive cars,
and her high-society status.
"We need a reliable,
invisible inside source,"
the man stated,
his eyes narrowing into cold,
calculating slits,
"someone who can infiltrate the Sterling family's extensive,
heavily guarded network."
"We know that the Sterling estate frequently hires low-level,
temporary contract workers for their massive,
elaborate landscaping projects,"
he explained,
"and we need you to use this money to heavily bribe one of those vulnerable,
greedy workers."
"We need detailed,
up-to-date schedules,"
"we need the exact,
precise routes of their armored security convoys,"
"and most importantly,"
"we need to know exactly when the child,
Julian,
leaves the absolute safety of the fortress."
Eleanor smiled,
a twisted,
ugly expression that contorted her aging face into a mask of pure,
unadulterated evil.
She did not care about the terrifying risks,
she did not care about the safety of her own innocent grandson,
she only cared about utterly destroying the people who had publicly humiliated her.
"Consider it done,"
Eleanor hissed venomously,
clutching the hidden envelope of cash tightly against her stomach,
"I will find someone,"
"I will get you everything you need,"
"just promise me that Arthur Sterling will suffer."
The man tipped his fedora slightly,
a cold,
predatory smirk appearing on his face as he turned to leave the dingy store.
"Oh, Mrs. Davis,"
he promised darkly,
"by the time we are finished,"
May you like
"Arthur Sterling will be begging for the sweet,
merciful release of death."
