Reaper’s stare hardened. “You should be.”
Armando Garcia, head of the Mexican Cartel, swept in next, silent but alert, knowing cartel interests were riding on the outcome. He took his seat, eyes scanning the room, calculating risks.
Reaper leaned forward. “Let’s cut to the chase. The TRIAD won’t show unless it has to deal with them. So why drag us here, Buchannon?”
My father moved aside, meeting my eyes as he pulled out the chair reserved for me. I felt the weight of the moment—each man around the table was here because of their power, their survival, their legacy.
This was the crossroads. The debts owed tonight were more than numbers—they represented history, favors, and obligations that bound us all, and whoever claimed the throne would hold those chains.
No hesitation now.
I straightened my suit and strode forward, claiming my seat as the head of the IRA. The room went taut, every eye on me. Reaper whistled, his grin wild. Cesar’s shoulders tightened; Maxim’s lips thinned.
King crossed his arms, a rare smile cracking his usual stoicism. “Hell, this beats mopping up blood,” he said, leaning back.
Maxim spoke first, his voice clipped and full of authority. “Explain, Buchannon.”
I met his gaze, cold and steady. “Before you say another word, Fedorov, let me remind you that you are not without fault. Before you pass judgment, remember you owe Sinclair. One word from me and that debt’s due. We all know what those debts mean—so choose your next words carefully.”
Vladmir tensed. Maxim’s jaw tightened as Cesar slammed his palm down. “Enough,” he barked, authority ringing out, the room bristling with expectation and threat. “What the hell is going on here?”
“I am taking over the IRA,” I simply said. “And as such, I’ve asked Brian Buchannon to call this meeting so I could inform you all that as of today, all debts owed to Sinclair are wiped clean... on one condition.”
“Which is?” Armando quietly asked.
Turning to Cesar, I smiled. “The Italian Council agrees to give up all forms of retribution against the Pisano family.”
“No!” Cesar shouted, jumping to his feet, sending the chair he was sitting in flying back against the wall. “Tell Sinclair, he can go fuck himself. The Pisanos destroyed my family. Ran us out of Italy. We’re owed retribution, and no change in scenery will alter that fact.”
“Let me be crystal clear here, gentlemen,” I said, leaning back in my chair as I drummed my fingers on the table. “You all must agree or nothing. Either way, I will still be the head of the IRA.That will not change, and considering I know all your secrets, I think it’s best you take my offer.”
“You threatening me, Shay?” Maxim asked.
I shrugged. “Just stating a fact. If you don’t believe me, ask Aleksandr.”
Maxim stiffened, his head whipping to Vladmir, who looked pale. “What’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know, boss.”
The tension in the room was palpable as Cesar paced, fists clenched and eyes darting between the others, his anger thinly veiled behind a mask of outrage. Maxim kept his gaze trained on Vladmir, waiting for answers I knew the man didn’t have, while Armando’s hands rested calmly on the table, his expression unreadable.
Reaper finally broke the silence, his voice steady but cautious. “You’re asking for something unattainable, Shay—a truce that will never happen. If the Italian Council refuses your condition, what happens next, ’cause I know you don’t have shit on me or the Federation?”
All eyes shifted back to me, waiting for my answer, the balance of power trembling in the space between my words. My fingers tapped lightly on the table as I surveyed the faces before me, the tension almost tangible in the heavy air.
I smirked. “I’ve always liked you, Reaper. You’re smart, cunning, and you don’t take any shit, so please forgive me when I say this. Should the Italian Council refuse my gift, as head of the IRA, I will vote to have you sit at the head of the table.”
No one moved.
No one dared.
Reaper glared at me, and if looks could kill, I’d be a dead man walking. I didn’t have to explain myself. Everyone sitting around the table knew exactly what it meant if I were to cast my vote for Reaper. Never in the history of the underworld had anyoneever sat at the head of the table. No organization willingly gave up its vote for another. It was unheard of, and yet, as I sat there, looking at the man across from me, I knew there was no one better to take on the factions of the underworld.
A slow, uneasy breath slipped from Cesar’s lips, and the room seemed frozen in anticipation. The weight of my words lingered, pressing against the walls like a storm waiting to break. Vladmir glanced at Maxim, uncertainty shadowing his features, while Armando’s fingers flexed, betraying a flicker of nervous energy.
Reaper’s gaze didn’t falter. He met my eyes, his jaw set, and nodded once, acknowledging both the challenge and the compliment. The others shifted uneasily, caught between loyalty and ambition, their silence stretching thin across the table like a razor’s edge.
“So the choice is yours, Cesar,” I spoke, turning to face the head of the Italian Council. “What shall it be?”
