He looks terrified. "Yes, sir."
I let go. Pat his face. "Good. Get out."
They leave fast.
I get dressed. Black suit. Black shirt. No tie. Check the gun at my hip. Loaded. Always loaded.
Today's the day. Today everything changes.
• • •
The meeting is at noon. Klaus's penthouse. The big one. Conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park.
Everyone's here. Everyone. Lieutenants. Captains. Underbosses from three territories. Corrupted cops on the payroll. A judge. Two senators. A DA. The entire network. The whole fucking empire.
Klaus at the head of the table. Oxygen tank beside him—smaller now, barely used. Cancer in remission. Looking healthier every day. Looking smug.
I walk in late. Everyone stops talking.
I walk straight to one of the guards stationed by the door. Grab the gun from his waist holster. He doesn't resist. Knows better.
I turn. Aim. Fire.
The oxygen tank explodes. Not literally—just hisses, pressure releasing, oxygen spraying into the room.
Klaus jerks back. Shocked. Eyes wide. For one beautiful second, he looks afraid.
Then he composes himself. Smiles. "Drogo. Dramatic as always."
I lower the gun. Walk to the table. Stand at the opposite end from Klaus. "I'm going to London," I say.
Silence. Then the room erupts. "What?" "You can't—" "Klaus, this is—"
A man stands. Ilya. Mid-fifties. Cocky. Always questioned my authority. Always treated me like Klaus's pet project instead of his heir. "You think you can just leave?" Ilya sneers. "You think we answer to you?"
I raise the gun. Pull the trigger.
The bullet hits him between the eyes. He drops. Blood pooling on the expensive carpet.
I look around the table. At the shocked faces. At the fear. "Anyone else questioning me?"
Silence.
"Didn't think so."
I sit. Ilya's body three feet away. No one moves to remove it. I snap my fingers. "Vodka." A woman—assistant, someone's secretary—rushes forward. Pours. Hands me the glass with shaking hands.
I drink. Set it down. Pull the files toward me. Business as usual. "Shipment schedules," I say. "Someone talk."
They talk.
For two hours, we go through it. Territory disputes. Payment schedules. Problem accounts. I handle it all. Right there. At the table. With Ilya's corpse cooling beside us. Efficient. Cold. Ruthless. Exactly what Klaus made me.
When it's done, I dismiss them. "Out. All of you."
They leave. Fast. Grateful.
Except Klaus.
