Chapter 2 - Blood on the Asphalt
The crisp Manhattan night air whipped against my face as the Plaza’s gilded doors sealed shut behind us. My mother’s armored Maybach was already idling at the curb, its engine a low, predatory purr. We didn’t speak until the heavy, bulletproof doors locked. "Richard is making a move," I said, wiping a faint smear of dried blood from my lip where Eleanor had struck me.
Margo smoothly poured two glasses of aged scotch from the car's crystal decanter. "Let him try," she replied, her tone terrifyingly calm.
Suddenly, the Maybach violently swerved. A matte-black SUV had blown through a red light, T-boning our front escort vehicle and boxing us against a concrete barrier. Three men in dark tactical gear poured out of the SUV, raising suppressed weapons toward our reinforced window. Richard hadn’t just called a corporate fixer; he had called a hit squad.
