Yancy turns to me. “And you know there’s no such thing as severance pay in the Syndicate. You’ll get the clothes on your backs. That’s it.”
I nod. “A kindness for which we are both grateful.”
“There will be no goodbyes. You two will walk through that door and out of the mansion, and from then on, you’ll be as dead to the Royal Syndicate. No texts or emails, no cards or letters. Dead.”
Good. He’s already slipping into the role. The sooner he does that, the easier the transition will be.
“Understood, Don Yancy.”
The corner of his mouth turns up in the slightest of grins. He might never have imagined that his life would take this turn, buthe’s glad for the chance to walk the path forged by my father and me.
Transferring control of an organization as complex as the Syndicate takes more than a name change and a handshake. For the next several hours, we hold small, closed meetings with various officials.
First, without explanation to our treasurer, we call Marco in and have him give Yancy a crash course in reading the ledger. After that, we bring in the twins—Holly first, then Hank—to assist in password transfers and resetting any biometrics in the Syndicate security systems.
One by one, we quietly move everything to Yancy’s name and ownership. By early afternoon, for all intents and purposes, Yancy Gale is the new don of the Royal Syndicate. All that remains is the official announcement.
Unfortunately, transferring all Syndicate property to Don Yancy included the transfer of the title to my father’s manor in the woods. If the twins hadn’t become aware of it when Aron used it after his first escape from the Empire, we might have been able to keep it a secret, but I wasn’t about to risk using that location when it no longer remained hidden.
We really are on our own in this. No home to run to, no money for a plane ticket, not even, as Don Yancy put it, a change of clothes.
There’s one final thing to take care of before we leave. We’ve turned in our weapons, given back our signet rings, deposited our phones with the twins …
… Now comes the painful part of separation.
Now we deal with our Syndicate tattoos.
There are a few choices available to us, none of which are exactly pleasant. There’s the knife method, where the tattoos are cut from our skin—messy as hell, and dangerous. Alternatively,we could suffer through literal trial by fire, having the designs burned off. Also messy, and again, a high risk for infection.
Don Yancy, in his infinite wisdom, offers us a third choice: total blackout.
While certainly the most palatable option as far as pain level and infection risk go, it’s also tedious. My crowned angel encompasses nearly my entire back, and Aron’s isn’t much smaller. A tattoo session of that magnitude could take days—should take days, over a period of time, to allow for proper healing of the skin. We don’t have days, though, so Don Yancy calls in every tattoo artist on the Syndicate payroll, plus a few who owe us favors.
This is going to be a long evening.
Smaller, less official tattoos, like the rosary on my wrist, can remain. Only the crowned angels are official Royal Syndicate symbols, so at least we don’t need to black out our entire bodies.
In the basement of the mansion, Aron and I lie on our stomach on old cots and brace ourselves for the longest, most painful tattoo session of our lives.
Four artists each surround us, tattoo guns in hand. They work silently for hours, tapping out when their arms go numb so others can jump in and continue. Blood drips on the basement floor, and I know that it’ll be left there as a reminder to anyone else who might get the bright idea to leave this way.
Even with the artists working in tandem and rotating, our coverups take us well past sundown. Aron’s tattoo job finishes first, but since Syndicate rules forbid any physical or moral support for our official tattoo sessions, he’s forced to sit off to the side and watch as my tattoo is finished. He can’t hold my hand or offer words of encouragement. Not that I’d expect it or even ask for it, but it sucks that I can’t have it.
By the time my coverup is done, I shake from head to toe, almost falling when I try to stand. Aron moves to catch me, but I put my arm out to stop him. I need to do this myself.
Don Yancy waits for us at the back gate of the estate when we’re finished. He stands there alone, the last Syndicate member to see us before we disappear … and hopefully the last one to see us ever.
“Still convinced you made the right choice?” he asks.
I look to Aron, whose pallor probably matches mine. We’ll be weak and dazed for a while. “Are you still with me?”
“Always, Matt.” He takes my hand, glancing at Don Yancy to see his reaction. “I assume this is okay now? We’re not conducting official Syndicate business anymore. A little handholding should be all right.”
Our new don laughs. “Aron, you two could fuck the second you walk past this gate, and I wouldn’t give a crap. I do ask that you wait at least until then, though.” He winks and opens the gate. “Remember. What you’ve got on is all you’ve got now. You can’t ask for anything else, and no favors will be granted from here on out.”
I bow to him. “You’ve granted us the only favor I’d ever dare to ask. I thank you, Don Yancy.”
“Good luck in the next life, you two.”
