POV: Elijah
You know that feeling when you've won a war, but the peace feels like a punishment?
I won. The court finally gave me full, permanent guardianship of my baby sister, Juliet. No more lawyers, no more Tia Rosa's tearful pleas, no more threats of social workers.
Last night, Tia Rosa came to the mansion. She didn't bring legal papers. She brought my mother's memory.
"I loved my sister more than my own life. You know this."
"I know."
"She... she was so afraid for you boys. For the men you were becoming. But Juliet... she was a clean page. A chance. Isabella's last wish... it wasn't to punish you, mijo." Her voice broke. "It was to save her. To give her a life without... all of this."
I looked out at the skyline, the kingdom of shadows and steel I commanded.
"I know what her wish was," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
"Then know this too," Tia Rosa said, strength returning, sharp as a nail. "You won. She is yours. Your fortress is the strongest. But a fortress is not a home. And a guard is not a father. Your mother did not want a warden for her daughter. She wanted a brother."
The word hit me with the force of the backhand I'd given Riven a lifetime ago. A correction.
"You have the guns. You have the money. You have the fear," she pressed, relentless. "Now you must have the courage to try. For her. For Isabella. Open a window in that tomb you live in. Let in some... light. Some normal. Try."
I closed my eyes. Saw my siblings and the 'normal' lives we were trying to live.
But Juliet wasn't a scent. She was a soul. And my mother's ghost was in this room, nodding along with her sister's plea.
"I will," I heard myself say. The words felt foreign. A surrender of a different kind. "I will try."
AFTER DROPPING JULIET 7: 20 A.M
The ghost of Juliet's laugh was a weakness, a scent on my collar I needed to burn away. The SUV was a rolling tomb.
I stripped off the jacket that smelled of her baby shampoo and threw it out the window onto the speeding highway.
For a second—just one treacherous second—I almost stopped the car to get it back.
Weakness was a stain , l couldn't afford. Not even for her. Especially not for her.
By 8:02 AM, I stood in the warehouse. The air was thick, poisonously sweet. Tons of raw heroin and cocaine, the foundation of my empire.
Moretti, the buyer, was a bloated tick. He entered with his usual swagger, a man who believed his money was a shield. We did not shake hands. I nodded.
"The money," I commanded.
His man placed a huge briefcase on the table. l didn't even look at it. Silas, my auditor, placed it on a digital scale. "Five million short," he stated.
Moretti's face split into a greasy smile. "A banking error, Don Fernandez! The rest is en route. You have my word."
"I am not a bank," I cut him off, my voice devoid of all emotion. It was the flat, dead tone of a verdict. "You brought me fifteen million. You get fifteen million dollars' worth of product."
His smile vanished. "That's not our deal!"
"The deal was for twenty. You changed the terms. I am accepting your new offer." I nodded to my men. They began loading exactly three-quarters of the shipment into his van.
He sputtered, face purpling. "This is an insult! You can't—"
I turned my back on him. The ultimate dismissal. "Take it, or leave it and explain the empty trucks to your superiors. Your choice."
WILLIAMS ISSUE
Leo's report on Congress Williams was a problem. A clean, powerful politician with a moral compass was like a cockroach in the walls—hard to find, harder to crush, and endlessly irritating.
Leo had just confirmed it. "He's a ghost. No debts, no vices, no mistresses. His only passion seems to be his own righteousness."
I stared at the city skyline from my office. A man with no handles is the most dangerous kind. You can't bribe a saint. You can't blackmail a statue.
Then I remembered the ex-agent. Giovanna Santos. Desperate, skilled, and burning with a need for revenge. Her "Star of Belgrade" diamond.
"Leo," I said, my voice calm. "Where is the diamond being held?"
"The Museum of National History. It's on loan. The gala opening is tomorrow night. Security is federal."
"And who," I asked, my eyes still on the horizon, "is the chairman of the oversight committee for that museum? The one who secured the loan, who will take the public credit for its display?"
Leo was silent for a moment, pulling the data. When he spoke, I could hear the faint smile in his voice. "Congressman Williams. His pet project. His crowning public achievement."
A slow, cold smile touched my lips. Perfect.
I turned to face the room. "Set up the meeting with Santos. Tell her I'll provide the logistical support. The men, the access, the escape route."
"And our cut?" Viktor asked from the corner.
"We don't want a cut of the diamond," I said. "We want a cut of Williams. His reputation is his armor. We're going to help Santos shatter it."
The plan was beautiful in its simplicity. Let the ex-agent steal her diamond. My men would ensure she succeeded and vanished. And in the aftermath, the scandal would be nuclear.
The powerful Congressman Williams, the "champion of the people," would be utterly humiliated.
His greatest triumph, the jewel he brought to the city, stolen on his watch under federal protection. The media would feast on his incompetence.
He wouldn't be arrested. He'd be destroyed. Politically, socially, completely. And the best part? There would be no trail back to me. Just the ghost of an ex-agent and the echoing laughter of his rivals.
"Make the call," I told Leo. "We're going to help a thief. And in doing so, we're going to make a politician disappear."
12:58 PM
BANG. BANG.
Not outside. Inside. My warehouse.
Two of my lieutenants, Marco and the new idiot, were in a standoff over a few city blocks, their guns drawn like children waving sticks.
The sound of their gunfire was an offense. An infection in my building.
I walked out onto the steel gantry overlooking the floor. They didn't see me at first. I let them shout. Let them feel their own self-importance. Then I raised my hand.
Silence.
Every man froze.
I pointed at Marco, then at the new idiot. "You," I said, my voice cutting through the vast space. "And you."
Viktor's men seized them. They were dragged, begging now, to the center of the concrete floor.
"You have a dispute over territory," I said, my voice conversational. "So we will settle it. The old way."
I drew my own pistol—a sleek, black 9mm—and tossed it onto the floor between them. "There is one bullet. The winner keeps his territory. The loser... has his dispute resolved."
I turned my back and walked toward my office, the sound of their desperate, scrambling struggle and the single, final gunshot a fitting end to the morning 's negotiations.
I checked my watch. 1:15 PM.
Juliet could wait.
And learn that the sound of business—the click of a gun, the silence of a threat—is the only love song a man like me knows how to sing.
And my song is ruthless.