When the officers file into the office—precisely one hour after Matt gave the order—my stomach churns in anticipation of the bloodbath to come.
Matt purposefully has me seated at the head of the table next to him. Not on the corner to his right or left, as is normal for a high-ranking officer, but side-by-side at the head of the long conference table, to his right. Not even Lucinda earned such a position during Tito’s rule. He insisted on our joined hands lying atop the table between us, there for all to see, and I notice more than a few raised eyebrows at the sight. Those who don’t raise their brows instead furrow them in confusion, like they can’t comprehend what they’re seeing.
I don’t blame them. Homosexuality isn’t exactly approved of in organizations like ours, especially not in the top ranks. Still, to Matt’s credit, they’re not reaching for their weapons …
Yet.
Only one officer glares with blatant disgust: Creed Wilson.
Creed’s reaction doesn’t surprise me. He’s old school, one of Tito’s first officers, so he probably doesn’t consider anythingMatt does to be the right way of going about it. Matt’s ruling style definitely varies from Tito’s.
Once everyone is seated, Matt gestures to the trays of food on the table. “Dig in.”
Again, some officers react with disbelief, but everyone—myself included—takes what they want from the spread in front of them.
The guard who arranged the food, a young man named Percy, was smart about his choices. Most of it is finger foods, things that can be handled without the need for silverware, which could be distracting during a meeting. Imagine if someone started scraping their plate while Matt was in the middle of speaking!
As soon as we’re all settled with our food, Matt clears his throat. All heads turn towards us, and the show begins.
“Thank you all for meeting us today,” he begins, and Creed’s face visibly reddens. I glance at his fingers, and his knuckles are white on the small sandwich he’s crushing between his hands. “Now, while I’m sure all of you have questions, I ask that you hold them until I’m done.” Matt pauses for a beat, but no one objects. “Good.
“You may have noticed that the seating arrangement has been slightly altered. That is not an accident, nor is it temporary. From now on, there are two dons in the Syndicate.” He stops again, and even though I’m looking straight ahead, I can feel his gaze sweep the room. Matt raises our joined hands, not speaking again until every single pair of eyes is on us. “Werule the Royal Syndicate.Wemake the decisions.Weare the be-all and end-all. If one of us issues a decree, consider it as coming from both.”
Another pause. Whether or not Matt paused for effect is uncertain, as Creed immediately jumps in.
“You’d throw this in our faces? You’d fucking throw this inGod’sface?”
Matt’s head turns slightly to face Creed directly. “Throw what in your faces?”
He poses the question with a quiet calm, one that belies the absolute venom he must feel. The words are more threat than inquiry; he’s daring Creed to voice his concerns directly, to put his homophobia into words.
Creed’s face goes from red to a deep purple. He demolishes the squashed sandwich and stands so quickly that his chair topples over and clatters to the floor.
“Your fucking sodomy, you asshole-loving faggots!”
There it is. I wait for Matt to make his next move. He could have Creed killed right where he stands, or he could find a worse sentence for the bigot. Or, I realize, he could be waiting formeto do something.
I’m not used to this. I don’t act in Syndicate meetings; I stand quietly behind Matt and let him do the talking. If he’s waiting for me, it might be a long wait. Scrambling for an appropriate punishment, I opt to stand as well, drawing the attention of Creed and everybody else in the room.
There’s one man in the room with as much pull on the others as Creed: Yancy. I’ve been watching his reaction out of the corner of my eye, but surprisingly, there’s been little to no change in his expression. He looked shocked when he came in, but his face settled into one of calm detachment soon after. If Yancy disapproves of our relationship or our joint leadership, he’s not letting it show.
“Yancy,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “what’s your opinion on Creed’s colorful statement?”
Yancy dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin before standing slowly, still maintaining that blank expression. He gives a small bow to the head of the table, then, with lightning speed, draws his gun and shoots Creed between the eyes. As theolder man’s body crumples, Yancy holsters his weapon and sits back down.
“That, Don Aron, is my opinion.”
I sweep the room with my gaze. “Anyone else have an opinion they’d like to share?”
No one speaks up.
Matt squeezes my hand, urging me to continue. Since I have the room’s undivided attention, I decide to wrap things up.
“Then it’s unanimous. Good.” I sit back down and squeeze back. “Now, since that’s all the immediate business, I’d like to adjourn for the day. Give you all time to think about our next moves against the Empire.”
Marco, our treasurer, clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Don Aron, but with you here, who is heading the Empire?”
Matt takes point on this one. “My mother. Lucinda Mangione—or, should I say, Lucinda Martinez—has assumed control of the Empire. We’ll deal with her later, though. For now, get back to work. Sleep on it tonight. In the morning, we’ll devise a plan.”
