"It's getting close, Boss," Dante’s voice crackles through the speaker. He sounds exhausted. He sounds dangerously closeto insubordination. "The Commission didn't just target the warehouse. Ten minutes ago, they hit three of our legitimate fronts downtown. Two of our soldiers are dead. A dozen civilians are hospitalized."
The muscles in my back instantly lock. Open warfare on the streets of Chicago. The Commission is making a statement. They are trying to force my hand by shedding innocent blood, attempting to turn the city against the Syndicate.
"And the Capos?" I ask, my voice dropping into a dead, flat frequency.
Dante hesitates. It is a fatal pause.
"The Capos are bleeding, Thayer," Dante says, dropping the formal title, a clear indication of the severe internal tension fracturing my ranks. "And they are asking questions. Word leaked about Maria. They want to know why the most loyal housekeeper in the Syndicate was executed and dumped on enemy territory. They are demanding a sit-down."
"They don't demand anything from me," I growl, my knuckles turning bone-white as I grip the edge of the console. "I am the Don. My word is absolute."
"They think you are compromised," Dante pushes back, the sheer audacity of his words making my blood run completely cold. "They think the girl is making you reckless. You executed Maria without a trial. You locked the compound down. And now our men are dying in the streets while you hide in a bunker with a Vance."
The disrespect is profound. It requires immediate, brutal correction. If I show a single ounce of weakness right now, the Capos will mutiny. They will tear the Syndicate apart from theinside, and when they are done, they will hand Sybil over to the Commission themselves just to restore the peace.
"Assemble the Capos in the war room," I command, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. "Tell them I will be up in ten minutes. And Dante?"
"Yeah, Boss?"
"If you ever question my sanity regarding my wife again, I will cut out your tongue and feed it to the dogs. Am I understood?"
A heavy silence falls over the line.
"Understood, Don Thorne," Dante finally replies, the formal respect snapping back into place.
I cut the connection. The bunker descends back into a suffocating, heavy silence.
I stand at the console for a long moment, staring blindly at the dark monitors. The war has arrived. I can no longer orchestrate it from the shadows. I have to step out of the vault and become the terrifying, bloodthirsty tyrant my men need to see in order to fall back into line.
I turn around.
Sybil is still standing against the wall. She has pulled her knees together, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist in that defensive, heartbreaking posture I despise. She heard every word. She knows the men outside want her dead, and she knows I am leaving the bunker.
"You have to go," she whispers, the absolute terror of abandonment completely fracturing her voice.
I cross the room, stopping inches from her. I reach out and cup her face, my thumbs sweeping away a fresh tear that tracks down her cheek.
"I have to remind my men exactly who they work for," I murmur, my gray eyes locking onto hers. "I have to put the fear of God back into them, Sybil. If I don't crush this rebellion right now, they will come for you."
"They said I make you reckless," she chokes out, her hands coming up to grip my wrists. "They are going to turn on you because of me, Thayer. You killed Maria because of me."
"I killed Maria because she was a liability," I correct harshly, refusing to let her carry the guilt of my violence. "And I am not reckless. I am highly motivated. There is a massive difference."
"Don't leave me alone down here," she begs, the psychological trauma of her father's locked rooms violently clashing with her new reality. The man she is begging not to leave is the same man who holds her captive.
"I will be back before you even realize I am gone," I promise, pressing a hard, desperate kiss to her forehead.
I step away from her, the physical separation an actual, agonizing pain in my chest. I walk back to the chair, pulling my ruined dress shirt off and tossing it aside. I pull a fresh, black tactical shirt from a duffel bag stored under the console and pull it over my head. I strap a shoulder holster over my chest and slide my heavy, matte-black 9mm into place.
I am no longer the husband in the dark. I am the commander of an army going to war.
I walk to the biometric panel near the heavy steel doors.
"Sybil," I call out, not looking back at her. "There is a suppressed Glock in the top drawer of the nightstand next to the bed. It is fully loaded. A round is already chambered."
I hear her sharp intake of breath. The idea of her holding a weapon is terrifying, but the idea of her being defenseless is infinitely worse.
"Do not open this door," I command, my voice completely uncompromising. "The biometric lock is sealed to my thumbprint only. But if, by some impossible miracle, someone breaches this vault and it is not me..." I turn my head, meeting her terrified, tear-filled eyes. "You empty the clip into their chest. You don't hesitate. You shoot to kill. Do you understand me?"
