Chapter 7
The ripped succession papers lay like a slaughtered animal amidst the fine porcelain and crystal stemware. The undeniable finality of the act shattered the illusion of Domenica's victory. Lowen sat tall in his chair, his broad shoulders squared, his handsome face set in lines of uncompromising stone. The king was injured, but he was far from dead.
Domenica’s triumphant smile disappeared instantly. The color drained from her face, leaving her fair skin looking ashen and old under the bright, natural lighting of the chandeliers. She stared at the ruined documents, the legal transfer of power she had spent months orchestrating torn to shreds in less than a second.
"You fool," Domenica breathed, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and burgeoning panic. "You have no idea what you've just done. You have condemned us all."
"I have condemned no one but you, Aunt Domenica," Lowen replied, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that carried to every corner of the gallery. "Did you truly believe a piece of paper and two hired guns could rewrite the bloodline of this syndicate?"
Merrin remained crouched beside Lowen. She gently smoothed out the velvet fabric of the folded cushion beneath his heel, ensuring his leg was perfectly aligned. She kept her eyes fixed on his angular face, watching his sharp jawline for any sign of physical discomfort. She ignored the heavily armed men standing just feet away, finding her only sanctuary in the shadow of the man she served.
Lowen reached down, his large, tattooed hand gently resting on Merrin’s shoulder. It was a gesture of profound gratitude and unspoken protection. He didn't look at her, keeping his lethal gaze locked on his aunt, but the warmth of his hand sent a reassuring tremor through Merrin's exhausted frame.
"This isn't over," Domenica hissed, taking a step backward, signaling to her bodyguards. "The men outside are mine. You are trapped in this room, Lowen. We will simply starve you out or shoot you down."
"Are they yours, Domenica?" Lowen asked, tilting his head slightly. "Or did they simply take your money while waiting for my command?"
He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored dark suit jacket and withdrew a heavy, encrypted mobile phone. He placed it on the table and tapped the screen once.
The heavy oak doors of the dining gallery burst open.
Domenica spun around, expecting her loyalists to flood the room and execute her nephew. Instead, her breath caught in her throat.
Marching into the bright, cinematic light of the room were ten heavily armed men wearing the distinct, dark tactical gear of Lowen’s elite personal guard. At their head was Marcus, Lowen’s most trusted underboss, holding a suppressed submachine gun. The men fanned out instantly, forming an impenetrable wall of firepower between the head table and the exits.
"The perimeter is secure, Boss," Marcus announced, his rough voice echoing in the vast space. "The traitors at the gates have been neutralized and detained in the cellar. The estate is yours."
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Domenica’s two bodyguards instantly raised their hands, stepping away from the older woman and dropping their weapons to the marble floor. They knew a lost cause when they saw one.
Domenica was entirely alone.
