Chapter 8 - The Shadow of Victor Sloane
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Victor Sloane was a man carved out of gray slate.
His tailored charcoal suit hung flawlessly over a lean, wiry frame that seemed entirely devoid of human warmth.
His steel-gray hair was cropped close to his skull, and his pale eyes were as cold and dead as frozen gravel.
He pulled Cameron back half a pace with an effortless grip that betrayed surprising physical strength.
"That will be enough, Cameron," Sloane said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotional inflection.
"Go join your father on the stage."
"The press is waiting."
Cameron swallowed hard, casting one last venomed glance at me before turning and retreating toward the podium.
Sloane turned his chilling gaze toward Dante, completely ignoring the whispering crowd of donors around them.
"Dante," Sloane murmured, offering a curt, mocking nod.
"It has been several years since you graced a civilized gathering."
"I find that rooms filled with thieves and politicians rarely qualify as civilized, Victor," Dante replied evenly, his posture relaxed yet ready for violence.
Sloane's pale eyes drifted slowly from Dante to me.
A faint, repulsive smirk touched the corners of his thin lips as he noticed the silver bird resting against my collarbone.
"Ah," Sloane said softly.
"Miss Bennett."
"You look remarkably like your mother."
A cold shiver raced down my spine, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of looking away.
"Where is she, Sloane?" I demanded, keeping my voice firm and clear.
"Where are you keeping her?"
Sloane chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that made my skin crawl.
"Clara was always an exceptional auditor."
"Meticulous."
"Dedicated."
"Unfortunately, she suffered from the same unfortunate defect you seem to possess: an overdeveloped moral conscience."
"Get to the point, Victor," Dante interrupted, stepping slightly between us, his broad shoulders cutting off Sloane's line of sight.
"You didn't approach us to reminisce about accounting."
Sloane's expression hardened into granite.
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that only the three of us could hear.
"The microchip in that pendant contains proprietary intellectual property belonging to the Northbridge Foundation."
"I want it back."
"Along with the original digital drive Julian stole before his untimely demise."
"You murdered Julian," Dante stated, his voice flat, cold, and dripping with venom.
"Julian was an aggressive obstacle in a very lucrative commercial corridor," Sloane replied without a shred of remorse.
"He made a poor business calculation."
"Now, let us discuss current business."
Sloane looked back at me, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent.
"Your mother's health is failing, Nora."
"Her heart condition has deteriorated significantly in the damp river air."
"If I do not receive the decryption keys and the original drives by midnight tomorrow, her daily medical shipments will cease."
"Without her medication, she will survive less than forty-eight hours."
The room tilted beneath my feet.
My mother was sick.
She was trapped in a damp, freezing warehouse, slowly dying while these monsters drank five-hundred-dollar champagne.
"You bastard," I whispered, my fingernails digging into my palms so hard they nearly drew blood.
"Trade the ledger for Clara," Sloane whispered, his gaze shifting back to Dante.
"The ledger in exchange for the woman."
"You have twenty-four hours to decide whether you want justice for your dead brother, or a mother for your new little stray."
Sloane turned smoothly on his heel and melted back into the crowd of laughing socialites, leaving a trail of ice in his wake.
I felt the room closing in on me, the lights becoming too bright, the air too thick to breathe.
Before my knees could buckle, Dante's strong arm slid around my waist, lifting me effortlessly against his side.
"We are leaving," Dante murmured near my temple.
May you like
"Gabriel, clear the service exit."
"Now."
