Elio’s already here when I walk in, which surprises me. After the pier catastrophe, I half-expected him to tell Matvey to gofuck himself when the meeting was called. But even Elio can see the situation we’re in.
Vincent Wu from the Red Dragon Triad arrives next. He’s in his late twenties, American-born, ruthlessly ambitious. He’s been pushing into territories everyone thought were locked down, and his old man’s too sick to stop him anymore. Vincent doesn’t smile when he enters, doesn’t acknowledge anyone. Just catalogs every face, every exit, every potential threat before choosing his seat.
Marcus Doyle represents the Irish, tall and broad with the kind of easy smile that makes people underestimate how many bodies he’s personally buried. His family controls the docks and most of the labor unions, which makes him critical to any operation involving shipping or logistics. He winks at me as he takes his seat, sprawling back in his chair like he’s at a pub instead of a war council, one ankle crossed over his knee.
“Never thought I’d see the day when a Baronov asked for our help,” he says, that cocky grin still in place. “Must be bad.”
“Desperate times,” I admit. “But I’m not asking for your help, Doyle. This is different.”
Yuki Tanaka from the Yakuza is the last to arrive, strolling in unhurried and utterly composed like she’s got all the time in the world. Her family’s organization handles high-end smuggling and gambling operations across three states. She’s in her early twenties, rumored to be more vicious than her father ever was. She’s dressed like the badass she is in a long black leather coat, her dark hair swept over one shoulder.
She pulls out a compact mirror and touches up her lipstick while we wait, taking her sweet time, clearly enjoying making us all sit here and watch.
“Let’s get this over with,” she finally says without looking up. “Some of us have actual responsibilities.”
“Ouch, Yuki.” I lay my hand over my heart. “You wound me.”
“I don’t believe that for one second.” She smirks, snapping the compact shut.
We all graduated from St. Augustine Prep, and while we don’t exactly reunite for alumni weekend, there’s a grudging familiarity between us. We grew up in the same world, learned the same brutal lessons, sat in the same classrooms pretending we were normal kids while our fathers ran empires built on blood.
Once everyone’s seated, I get right to the point.
“You’ve all been hit,” I say, keeping my voice level. “We all have. Warehouses burned, shipments hijacked, men killed. The Ghost has cost every family in this room millions, and they’re not slowing down.” I pull out the tablet Dem prepped and slide it to the center of the table. “This is what we pulled off one of their operatives. A database of all of our assets—shell companies, offshore accounts, shipping routes. Everything you’ve spent decades hiding, laid out like a fucking blueprint.”
The tablet makes its way around the table. Vincent’s expression goes flat and cold. Marcus lets out a low whistle. Yuki’s lips twist in displeasure.
“How the fuck were they able to get this information?” Marcus spits.
“It doesn’t matter. They’re good. Really good. And unless we want to watch everything our fathers built get burned to the ground, we need to stop fighting each other and start fighting them.”
Vincent leans back in his chair, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the plywood. “And you’re suggesting what? That we work together? Our families have been enemies for decades.”
“I’m suggesting we put our differences aside long enough to take down the Ghost. Because if we don’t, there won’t be anything left to fight over.”
Yuki laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Your father and my father would rather die than sit at the same table. You know that.”
“Which is exactly why we’re here and they’re not,” Elio cuts in. “The old men are too proud, too stuck in their ways. They’d rather watch everything burn than compromise. But we’re not them.”
“Speak for yourself,” Vincent says coolly. “Some of us respect tradition.”
“Tradition won’t mean shit if we’re all dead or broke,” Matvey counters. “We can’t wait for our fathers to figure this out. By the time they agree on anything, the Ghost will own this city.”
The resistance in the room is palpable—decades of bad blood, territorial disputes, bodies buried on all sides. But the evidence on that tablet is undeniable.
“Let’s say we work together,” Marcus says, propping his boots on the edge of the plywood. “What’s the plan?”
“A trap. One operation, staged to look too good for the Ghost to pass up.” I lean forward, palms flat on the table. “The Baronovs and Valentis pool resources. We plan a combined shipment, something high-value that the Ghost can’t resist.”
Vincent’s eyes narrow. “You want to fake a joint move?”
“I want to bait a trap. We’ll make them think they have inside access to our communications again, like at the pier, but they won’t.”
Yuki reaches into her jacket and pulls out a slim silver cigarette case, selecting one and lighting it with a matching silver lighter. She takes a long drag before speaking, smoke curling from her lips. “And then they walk into an ambush.”
I straighten. “Exactly. We need every soldier you can commit. We coordinate the response, converge from multiple positions. The Ghost won’t see it coming because they’ll think they have the advantage.”
“So all you need from us is firepower?” Marcus asks, tracing the jagged wood grain of the table with a calloused thumb.
