Chapter 21 - The Red Oath
|
The crisp tear of the heavy paper sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.
I pulled the thick parchment from the black envelope. The document inside was illuminated in gold leaf and written in an archaic, copperplate script—the Yates Charter. It was the founding contract of the Syndicate, signed forty years ago by my father and the five regional families.
My eyes scanned the elegant, terrifying words. “In the event of physical incapacity, betrayal, or voluntary abdication, the sole blood heir who opens this seal shall assume total, unquestioned authority over all assets, territories, and enforcement wings of the Syndicate.”
"Wisdom, my dear," Arthur Vance murmured, stepping back and bowing his head slightly. "The Charter is absolute. As of this second, Miss Yates, you are the Sovereign."
Dad dropped his silver revolver into his waistband. Tears coursed through the deep wrinkles of his face, a tragic mixture of relief and absolute heartbreak. He had spent twenty-six years pretending to be an uneducated truck driver to keep me innocent, and in five seconds, I had voluntarily stepped into the dark.
Brandon stared at me from the floor, his face devoid of all color, his lips trembling so violently he could barely form words. "Emily... no. Please. You don't know what you're doing. Tell them it's a mistake! You're my wife!"
I didn't look at my knees, even though the nerve endings were screaming with a agony so hot it made my vision pulse in red waves. I dragged my eyes up to Brandon. The gentle, loving woman who had baked him cookies, smoothed his ties, and forgiven his late nights died on that hardwood floor.
"Silence," I said.
My voice was not a whimper. It was not a plea. It was a cold, iron blade that cut through the room.
Brandon choked on his breath, instantly shutting his mouth. The thirty guests in the shadows cowered, realizing that the victim they had just watched bleed was now holding the leash of every armed killer in the house.
I looked at the largest enforcer standing beside my father—a broad-shouldered man named Viktor whom I had seen once at a logistics warehouse three years ago.
"Viktor," I said calmly.
"Yes, Boss?" the giant answered without hesitation, bowing his head.
"Take my dog to Dr. Aris on 4th Street," I commanded, pointing to Cooper, who was still shivering on the rug. "If he isn't fully detoxed and healthy by morning, I will hold you personally responsible."
"Consider it done, Boss." Viktor immediately picked up my golden retriever in his arms as if the seventy-pound dog weighed nothing.
May you like
"And my husband?" Brandon whimpered, shrinking back. "Emily, please!"
"Put him in the wine cellar beneath the garage," I said, my voice empty of all emotion. "Chain him to the structural pillar. No doctor. No light. Just cold water until I decide what to do with his life."
