Chapter 7 - The True Betrayal
Dawson stopped ten feet away from her, his dark eyes locked onto her face. He didn't look angry anymore. He looked dead. Empty. Like everything inside him had just been burned to ash.
"Dawson," Sienna choked out, tears finally spilling over her lashes as she strained against the bonds. "Dawson, listen to me! I didn't send those files! It's a trap! Look at the logs—"
"Shut up, Sienna," Dawson said. His voice wasn't a roar. It was a cold, quiet whisper that cut through the cavernous warehouse like a razor blade.
He raised the pistol, leveling the barrel straight at her chest.
"Dawson, please!" she sobbed, the terror of betrayal cutting deeper than any physical pain. "You know me! You know I didn't do this!"
"I thought I did," Dawson said, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger. "I gave you everything. My trust, my protection, my heart. And you sold us out to the Russians for a payday."
"She didn't sell you out, cousin," a smooth, cultured voice echoed from the shadows.
Marcus stepped forward, a smug, venomous grin spreading across his face as he walked up beside Dawson. In his hand, he held a sleek encrypted flash drive.
Dawson didn't lower his gun, but his eyes flicked sideways toward Marcus. "What are you talking about?"
Marcus laughed softly. "Do you really think a street-level waitress from Pilsen has the high-level clearance to access the master vault override codes, Dawson? Come on. Even for you, that's blind stupidity."
Dawson’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second. He looked back down at Sienna, then slowly turned his gaze toward Marcus.
"It was you," Dawson breathed, the realization dawning with sickening clarity. "You were the leak inside the executive board."
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"Of course it was me," Marcus sneered, stepping closer to Nikolai Romanov and shaking hands with the Russian boss. "The old man is dying, you were losing control of the docks, and the Vostok syndicate made a much better offer for the North Side real estate portfolio. We just needed a convenient scapegoat. And who better than the little accountant you dragged out of a greasy diner?"
Romanov smiled, raising his own pistol and aiming it lazily at Dawson’s head. "A tragedy, really. But business is business, Mr. Moretti. Drop your weapon, or the girl dies right now."
