Chapter 12 - The Plea Deal
The fixer's name was Dominic. He was a low-level enforcer with a long rap sheet and absolutely zero loyalty to a white-collar coward like Mark Davis.
I sat in the interrogation room with Dominic, alongside the District Attorney. We had him dead to rights on armed trespassing, attempted arson, and conspiracy.
"You're looking at twenty years, Dom," I said, leaning over the metal table. "Mark is a sinking ship. He has no money. He embezzled from the Chicago syndicate, and they are going to gut him. You want to go down with a dead man?"
Dominic glared at me, his jaw clenched, but I could see the fear in his eyes.
"If you flip on him," the DA interjected smoothly, "I'll drop the conspiracy charge. You'll do three years in a minimum-security facility for the firearm possession. But we need the burner phone you used to communicate with him. We need the wire transfer records."
Dominic scoffed. "He didn't use a wire transfer. He gave me a duffel bag with fifty grand in cash. Said it was an advance."
"Where is the phone?" I pressed.
Dominic sighed, leaning back in his chair. "It's taped under the dashboard of my truck. He texted me the address of the house, told me to burn it, and promised me another fifty grand if I made sure 'the old lady' was inside when it went up."
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My blood ran cold. He hadn't just ordered an arson. He had ordered my assassination.
We recovered the burner phone. The text messages were explicit, undeniable proof of a murder-for-hire plot. The DA immediately drafted the warrant. Mark's bail was officially revoked. We were going to war.
