Chapter 8 - The Caldwell Panic
|
Across the city, in a sprawling, palatial estate on the North Shore, the morning was anything but quiet.
Ryan Caldwell slammed his crystal whiskey glass against the mahogany desk in his father's home office. The glass shattered, scattering amber liquid across the expensive rug.
"What do you mean they're just gone?!" Ryan screamed, his face red with panic and rage.
His father, Richard Caldwell, the patriarch of the Caldwell Group, sat calmly behind his desk. He was a ruthless, aging titan of industry who didn't tolerate hysterics.
"They vanished, Ryan," Richard said coldly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The police have absolutely no leads. No security footage. The hotel camera servers were physically ripped out of the walls. It was a professional job."
Ryan paced the room frantically, rubbing his hands over his face. "This is bad. This is really bad. David was supposed to clean up the mess in Suite 1407. He was supposed to pay off the maid and wipe the tapes!"
Richard's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "What mess, Ryan? What exactly did you do?"
"Nothing!" Ryan lied instinctively. "Just a rough night. A misunderstanding with the catering staff."
Richard stood up slowly. He walked around the desk and slapped his son across the face with enough force to stagger him.
"Do not lie to me!" Richard roared. "You think a catering dispute makes three prominent men vanish into thin air? You crossed someone, Ryan. Someone connected."
Ryan held his stinging cheek, his arrogance finally cracking under the weight of pure terror. "She was just a maid! A nobody!"
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the office swung open. Richard's personal head of security walked in, looking pale and shaken.
"Sir," the security head said, his voice trembling slightly. "We just received a package at the front gate. The courier disappeared before we could stop him."
He held up a small, black velvet box.
Richard snatched it from his hands and popped the lid open. Inside rested a single, bloody pearl earring.
Ryan gasped, stumbling backward. "That's... that's the earring I ripped off her ear last night."
Beneath the earring was a small, black business card with a single letter embossed in gold foil: T.
May you like
Richard Caldwell’s face drained of all color. He dropped the box onto the desk as if it were on fire.
"You absolute, irredeemable fool," Richard whispered, staring at his son in horror. "You didn't just assault a maid. You brought the Thorne Syndicate to our front door."
