Chapter 12 - The Execution of Justice
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Thomas groaned against the heavy wood of the table, blood dripping from his nose onto the pristine financial ledgers I had just presented.
“Larkin, please,” Thomas choked out, the arrogance entirely gone, replaced by the pathetic, weeping terror of a cornered rat. “We’re blood. We’re family. I can fix this. I can give the money back.”
Larkin kept his grip firm, looking down at his cousin with absolute, hollow indifference.
“You broke the covenant of the commission, Thomas,” Larkin said, his voice echoing in the quiet room. “And you violated the sanctuary of my business. Family does not excuse treason.”
Larkin looked up, meeting the eyes of the other four bosses around the table.
“Does the commission require further deliberation?” Larkin asked formally.
Viktor Volkov spat onto the floor, a brutal sign of disrespect aimed at Thomas. “The thief is yours to discipline, Larkin. His blood covers his own debt.”
The other bosses nodded in silent, grim agreement. The verdict was passed.
Larkin hauled Thomas backward, throwing him roughly onto the floor. Two of Larkin’s massive guards stepped forward immediately, hauling Thomas to his feet, binding his arms behind his back.
“Take him to the warehouse on the docks,” Larkin ordered.
“Larkin, no! Please!” Thomas shrieked, struggling violently as the guards dragged him toward the heavy oak doors. He locked eyes with me, his face twisted in desperate, weeping fury. “You bitch! You ruined me! You were nothing! You were supposed to be a joke!”
I stood perfectly still, looking down at the man who had tried to humiliate me, who had tried to murder the only boss who had ever respected me.
“I was a joke, Thomas,” I said, my voice cutting through his screams with icy, terrifying calm. “But you forgot the punchline.”
The heavy oak doors closed, silencing his screams.
The room took a collective breath. The tension dissolved, replaced by the heavy, pragmatic reality of mob business.
Larkin turned to me. The cold, ruthless mask he wore for the commission softened by a microscopic fraction, visible only to me. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against my sleeve, a silent, powerful acknowledgement of what we had just accomplished together.
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“The books are balanced, gentlemen,” Larkin announced to the room, turning back to the table. “And my new underboss will be handling all future audits.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Underboss. The invisible secretary was officially the second most powerful person in the syndicate.
