Chapter 11 - The Blood on the Floor
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The following morning, the Whitfield estate operated under a terrifyingly serene illusion of normalcy. The blood had been scrubbed from the floors, the bodies of the mercenaries had been incinerated at an off-the-books facility, and the loyalist guards stood watch in pristine dark suits.
To the outside world, Daniel Whitfield had miraculously recovered from a tragic fall.
In reality, he was preparing to slaughter an entire room of powerful men.
The Syndicate Commission—the five ruthless bosses who controlled the criminal underworld of the eastern seaboard—arrived at the estate precisely at noon. They arrived in a convoy of armored Maybachs, expecting to formalize Julian’s succession and solidify their lucrative new weapons deals with the Russian cartel.
They were escorted into the grand dining room by Elias.
The room was set for a massive feast. Crystal goblets gleamed in the sunlight. Silver platters of roasted meats and expensive wines lined the long mahogany table.
Alexei, the head of the Russian cartel, took a seat near the head of the table, looking incredibly smug.
“Where is the boy king?” Alexei sneered, checking his diamond-encrusted watch. “It is incredibly disrespectful to keep the Commission waiting.”
The heavy, carved oak doors of the dining room swung open.
The room fell completely, utterly silent.
It was not Julian who walked into the room.
Daniel Whitfield stepped through the doors, wearing a flawless, three-piece charcoal suit. The only sign of his recent trauma was a neat, white bandage above his right eyebrow. He projected an aura of absolute, overwhelming violence that immediately pinned every man in the room to their chairs.
Alexei’s smug smile vanished, his face draining of all color. Several of the older Italian bosses gasped, instinctively reaching for the weapons they had been forced to leave at the door.
“Gentlemen,” Daniel said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. He walked slowly to the head of the table, taking the massive leather chair that rightfully belonged to him. “I apologize for the delay. I had to dispose of some... garbage... in my basement.”
The tension in the dining room was thick enough to suffocate a man.
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“Daniel,” an older boss named Falcone stammered, sweating profusely. “We... we were told you had suffered a catastrophic brain injury. We were told you were on life support.”
“You were told a lie by a desperate, pathetic traitor,” Daniel stated smoothly, pouring himself a glass of red wine. He took a slow sip, his cold gray eyes locking directly onto Alexei. “And some of you were foolish enough to fund his treason.”
