Chapter 9
The name printed in bold black ink at the top of the offshore ledger was The Romanov Syndicate.
Winston stared at the paper, the muscles in his jaw clenching so tightly they threatened to snap. The Romanovs were the most ruthless, violent organized crime family on the Eastern seaboard. They were Winston’s oldest, most bitter rivals in the shipping and logistics empire he had built over forty years.
"Preston was taking loans from the Russians," Winston said, his voice a dangerous, vibrating bass. "My own son-in-law was financing his lifestyle with my enemies' money."
"And they called his debt, Boss," Marcus explained, pointing to a highlighted section on the document. "Two weeks ago. The Romanovs demanded fifty million in cash, or they were going to start cutting off Preston's fingers. Preston didn't have the money. So, he and Eleanor concocted the plan to get rid of Trey to access the trust."
Winston closed the folder, the reality of the situation settling heavily over his broad shoulders. Eleanor and Preston were monsters, yes, but they were desperate, cowardly monsters pushed into a corner by a much larger, much more dangerous predator.
"The Romanovs knew exactly what they were doing," Winston calculated, his mind shifting from a protective grandfather to a hardened warlord. "They lent Preston the money knowing he would default. They wanted him to break the trust. They wanted to bleed my family's syndicate dry from the inside out."
"They used a three-year-old boy as a pawn to steal our capital," Marcus said, his hand instinctively resting on the concealed weapon beneath his suit jacket. "What are your orders, sir?"
"Preston and Eleanor belong to the state now. Let them rot in a concrete cell for the rest of their pathetic lives," Winston said coldly. He handed the folder back to Marcus. "But the Russians... they crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed. They targeted my bloodline."
Winston walked over to the large hallway window, looking out over the city skyline. The snowstorm was finally beginning to break, the dark clouds parting to reveal the icy, glittering lights of the city below. It was his city. He had bled for it, fought for it, and built an empire upon it.
"Increase security around Trey to maximum," Winston ordered without turning around. "No one enters this floor without my explicit permission. Pull the men from the docks, pull the men from the warehouses. I want a fortress built around my grandson by sunrise."
"Consider it done, Boss," Marcus nodded respectfully. "And the Romanovs?"
Winston turned away from the window, the handsome look of his old age replaced entirely by the terrifying, ruthless visage of a Mafia kingpin preparing for absolute war. He adjusted the cuffs of his black cashmere turtleneck.
"The Romanovs wanted to see how far they could push me," Winston said, his deep mahogany skin radiating a lethal, icy authority. "They wanted a war for the city."
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He looked at his encrypted smartphone as it began to vibrate in his hand. The caller ID was blocked.
"Let's give them one," Winston whispered.
