Chapter 8 - The Docks of Chicago
The motel near the Port of Chicago was a dismal, run-down place, the air thick with the smell of diesel and rotting wood.
The rain was falling heavily, drummed against the metal roof of the SUV as Marco parked a block away.
Seraphina sat in the backseat, her emerald green coat pulled tightly around her. Ronan sat beside her, his hand resting on her knee.
"The motel room is wiretapped," Ronan explained quietly. "The FBI is already stationed in the surrounding rooms. They have been monitoring Hale’s phone calls with Dominic Vance. The moment Hale admits to his crimes, or the moment he threatens you, they will burst through the door. You will be safe, Seraphina. Marco and I will be in the room directly next door."
She nodded, her face pale but determined. "I’m ready."
She got out of the car, her heels clicking against the wet asphalt as she walked toward Room 104. Every step felt like a march toward a firing squad, but she didn't look back.
She knocked on the door.
The door swung open instantly.
Marcus Hale stood there. He was still tall, still handsome in a cruel, sharp-edged way, but his eyes were bloodshot and his clothes smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey. When he saw her, a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
"Well, well, well," Marcus sneered, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her inside, slamming the door behind her. "Look at you. Wearing expensive coats, living in a mansion with a mafia prince. You thought you could run from me, you little bitch?"
Seraphina didn't scream. She didn't cry. She stood her ground, even as his grip on her arm bruised her skin.
"Let go of me, Marcus," she said, her voice surprisingly calm.
"Or what?" he laughed, stepping closer, his breath hot against her face. "You’ll call your mob boss boyfriend? He can't touch me. I'm a cop, Seraphina. I have friends in high places. And Dominic Vance is going to make sure your boyfriend is in a pine box by morning."
"You came all the way to Chicago just to kill me?" she asked, her eyes darting to the small lamp on the bedside table where she knew the FBI’s microphone was hidden.
"I came to take what's mine," Marcus growled, pulling a heavy service weapon from his waistband and pressing the cold steel barrel against her temple. "You belong to me. You always have. If you think I’m going to let some Chicago gangster have my wife, you're dead wrong. Now, you’re going to tell me where the Vale Syndicate keeps their safe deposit keys, or I’ll paint this wall with your brains and tell the police it was a mob hit."
Seraphina looked directly into his cruel, familiar eyes. For three years, this man had been her god, her executioner, her absolute master. But looking at him now, she felt nothing but pity.
He was a small, desperate man, clinging to a gun to make himself feel powerful.
"You're too late, Marcus," she said softly.
"What?" he hissed.
The door to the motel room burst open with a deafening crash.
"Federal agents! Drop the weapon! Now!"
Flashbangs went off, filling the room with blinding light and deafening noise. Marcus screamed in panic, turning his gun toward the door, but before he could pull the trigger, three tactical officers tackled him to the floor, pinning him beneath their heavy shields.
Seraphina was pulled back into the hallway, straight into the waiting arms of Ronan Vale.
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He wrapped his coat around her, pulling her close to his chest as Marcus’s screams of rage were drowned out by the sound of sirens filling the wet Chicago night.
"It’s over, Seraphina," Ronan whispered, his voice shaking with a rare, terrifying emotion. "It’s over. You’re safe."
