Chapter 8
The atmosphere inside Roland Carter’s private study was heavy with the scent of cigar smoke and aged leather. The room was dark, illuminated only by the warm, amber glow of brass desk lamps, a stark contrast to the blinding, fake brightness of the Hayes ballroom. Seated around a massive mahogany conference table were five men—the most feared and respected capos in Roland’s syndicate. They wore impeccably tailored suits, their expressions deadly serious as they looked toward the head of the table.
Roland sat in his high-backed leather chair, his hands steepled in front of him. The signet ring on his finger caught the dim light. He had spent the last two hours ensuring Emily and the girls were settled safely in the estate's heavily guarded east wing. Now, it was time to conduct business.
"Michael Hayes put his hands on my daughter today," Roland said. His voice was quiet, steady, and entirely devoid of emotion. "And his mother humiliated my granddaughters in public."
A collective murmur of disgust rolled through the capos. In their world, family was absolute, and an insult to the Boss’s bloodline was an insult to them all.
"What are your orders, Boss?" asked Vincent, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running through his eyebrow. "Do we send a team to his estate tonight? We can have him in the trunk of a car by 3:00 AM."
"No," Roland replied, shaking his head slowly. "A bullet is too quick for a man who abuses women and children. I want him to suffer. I want him to watch everything he believes makes him a man evaporate into thin air."
Roland pulled a thick leather folder from his desk drawer and tossed it onto the center of the conference table.
"Emily provided me with the details of his financial standing," Roland explained. "Michael is highly leveraged. He owes three million to the port authorities, and another five million to the Russian faction in South Boston."
The capos leaned forward, the mention of the Russians sparking a dangerous interest in the room.
"He went outside the family for cash?" Vincent asked, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "He signed his own death warrant."
"Exactly," Roland nodded. "Vincent, I want you to contact our people at the municipal banks. Freeze every single account associated with the Hayes name. Personal, corporate, offshore—shut them all down. Claim a federal audit."
"Done," Vincent said, making a quick note on his phone.
"Marcus," Roland turned to a tall, sharp-featured man to his right. "Call Viktor at the Russian consulate. Inform him that the Carter family is officially retracting all guarantees on Michael Hayes’s debts. Tell Viktor that if he wants his five million dollars back, he needs to collect it by tomorrow morning, because Michael’s assets are being liquidated."
May you like
Marcus grinned, standing up from his chair. "Viktor will have his leg-breakers at Michael’s office before the sun comes up."
"Good," Roland said, standing up and buttoning his three-piece suit. "Take his businesses, take his properties, and let the Russians take his pride. When he has absolutely nothing left, he will come crawling to me. And then, we finish it."
