Chapter 7
Torin looked across the frozen table, his slate-gray eyes cataloging every face.
“Silvio,” Torin said quietly.
An older capo at the far end of the table snapped his posture straight. “Yes, Don Torin?”
“Who authorized Davina’s family to receive five percent of the Atlantic freight tolls last month?”
Silvio swallowed hard, his eyes cutting toward Sterling. “Marcus did, Boss. He signed the executive waiver while you were reviewing the dock leases in New Jersey.”
“And who among you,” Torin continued, his slow, rhythmic words cutting through the room like a razor, “voted to approve the merger of our northern lines with the Sterling group?”
Five capos immediately lowered their heads, staring intensely at their polished shoes, their knuckles turning white against their knees.
“We were told it was your wish, Don Torin,” one of the younger captains murmured, his voice trembling with fear. “Sterling told us you wanted the alliance finalized before the wedding ceremony.”
Torin let out a low, dry chuckle. It held no warmth, no humor—only the terrifying sound of a sovereign reviewing a defeated rebellion.
“My father spent forty years building an empire of iron and silence,” Torin said, turning back toward Marcus Sterling. “He gave you your wealth. He gave you your homes. He protected your children from federal indictments. And you poisoned him in his own library because you were afraid he would retire and close the offshore spigots.”
“He was weak, Torin!” Sterling hissed, the fear in his eyes finally curdling into cornered, desperate hatred. “Julian had gone soft in his old age! He started talking about legacy! He started talking about legitimizing the shipping lines and shutting down the black-market routes! That business was worth ninety million dollars a year! We couldn't let an old man's conscience ruin three decades of work!”
“So you used Davina,” Torin said softly.
“She was ambitious,” Sterling sneered, glaring at the weeping woman on the floor. “She wanted to be the queen of New York. It wasn't hard to convince her that an elderly mother-in-law and a stubborn old patriarch were obstacles that needed to be cleared.”
Torin stepped back from the chair. He reached into his trouser pocket, retrieved a clean linen handkerchief, and slowly wiped his hands, smoothing the delicate ink designs along his knuckles.
“Lucian,” Torin commanded without looking up.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Take Mr. Sterling down to the cellar,” Torin ordered, his voice steady as iron. “Place him in the cold storage vault beside my father’s old wine racks. He will remain there until the Commission arrives tomorrow morning to witness his confession.”
Sterling lunged up from his chair, reaching for a weapon inside his jacket, but Lucian’s hand moved faster than thought.
A heavy, sickening crack echoed through the hall as Lucian drove the butt of his suppressed pistol directly into Sterling’s temple. The older man went limp, crashing heavily against the bleached oak table before sliding onto the marble floor. Two enforcers grabbed him by his collar, dragging him backward through the service doors like a sack of grain.
Torin turned his attention back to the woman kneeling by the pillar.
May you like
“And Davina,” Torin said, looking down at his former fiancée with dead, unblinking eyes. “Take her to the guest house near the north gate. Strip her of her jewelry, her phone, and her passport. She does not leave that room until I decide where she will be buried.”
Davina began to wail—a high, broken, animal sound of complete ruin—as two guards hauled her to her feet, dragging her weeping and screaming through the glass doors into the bright, unyielding daylight.
