Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
CHICAGO
W hile Bryson raged, his father remained silent, glued to his phone for most of the ride home.
“She’s delusional. We would never agree to that bitch’s terms,” Bryson spat.
He knew his father was playing a game, he always was, but letting a Federov believe she’d won, even for a second?
The whole thing was absurd. His father was furious over his lack of focus, and this was his response? Threatening to sell him?
It was over the top, even for him.
As his father continued tapping away on his phone, Bryson took full advantage of the distraction. He reached for the car’s brandy, pouring himself a glass, and fired off a quick text to Kaydon.
Be home in thirty.
The message sent; he tossed back the first drink.
“Can you believe she bought it?” he asked the car’s interior, eyes wild with disbelief. He poured another. “The nerve of her, to think she could own a Winters. ”
Down went the second glass. A third followed immediately after.
“We do not kneel,” he muttered, voice low but burning.
The brandy dulled the edges of his temper, and as the car wound its way down the long, familiar driveway, Bryson felt the worst of it melt away. He was almost home. Back to Seth and Kaydon. They would know how to handle him.
They always did.
They’d pour drinks. Mock Adria. Take turns ripping her to pieces—verbally, at least.
He looked up toward the house, his gaze locking on his bedroom window. Seth was usually there, peeking through the curtains, waiting for him. Watching for trouble. Kaydon pretended not to worry, but he always did. It was in his blood. His duty as Right Hand.
But the window was dark. Empty.
“When you’re ready to have a civilized conversation,” Callen said, stepping out of the car, “meet me in my office.”
Bryson didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the third-floor window.
His father hadn’t said everything. That much was clear. There was more to discuss. Likely something he didn’t want spoken aloud, even in front of the driver. Odd, considering all household staff were branded to the Winters.
Still, Bryson didn’t move.
He would see his brothers first.
Then, he would face his father.
It was a massive house, enormous by most standards, divided into four distinct wings: one for staff, one for business, one for his father, and one for Bryson. His wing had once belonged to him and his two siblings, but with Luca dead and Elena in exile, Bryson was the only one left.
The brandy swam heavy in his gut as he climbed the stairs. His head buzzed, and his breath quickened as he reached the landing. No voices. No greeting. The hallway was still.
Too still.
A prickle of unease crawled up his spine.
He turned, suddenly alert. Something was wrong.
Bryson’s gaze locked on his bedroom door.
The frame was cracked—splintered.
A beat passed before instinct kicked in and he broke into a sprint.
The locking mechanism had been ripped straight from the wall, metal shards and splinters of plaster scattered across the floor. The chaos stretched out before him. Shattered chairs, overturned tables, broken glass, and books strewn like confetti. A tall bookshelf had been toppled, its contents lying in ruined piles.
Then he saw it.
Blood.
A spray of it marked the far wall, small, but vivid against the cream paint.
Bryson’s heart seized. The walls seemed to close in, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He staggered forward, one hand clutching the leg of an overturned table just to stay upright.
Numb, barely feeling his limbs, Bryson turned and ran.
Adrenaline tearing through him as he burst through the doors of his father’s office?—
And froze.
Time fractured.
Seth knelt on the floor, face bruised and bloodied. His right eye was nearly swollen shut. A gun pressed against the back of his head, held steady by one of the branded guards.
On the opposite side of the room, Kaydon lay hogtied and gagged, his face an unrecognizable mess of bruises and dried blood. His eyes locked with Bryson’s.
And behind them all, at his polished mahogany desk, sat Callen Winters.
Calm. Unbothered.
Writing.
“What the fuck!” Bryson shouted.
“Have a seat,” his father replied, not looking up from his paperwork.
“No, I’m not gonna have a seat. What the hell is going on?”
A flick of his father’s hand, and the click of a gun cocking froze Bryson’s blood.
The haze from the brandy thinned as adrenaline surged. His focus sharpened, landing on the man behind Seth—plump-faced Rolland, with a pistol aimed at the back of Seth’s head.
“Okay!” Bryson raised his hands slowly. “I’m sitting.”
He lowered himself into the chair, gaze never leaving Rolland. Maybe not now, but Bryson promised himself one thing—no matter how this ended, Rolland would die for pointing a gun at his brother. Orders or not.
Take a good look, asshole. These are the last eyes you’ll ever see.
“We need to discuss your duty to this family,” his father said, setting his pen aside.
Bryson didn’t respond, waiting until Rolland uncocked the gun. Seth’s body relaxed, just slightly.
“By all means, Father,” Bryson said, voice bitter. “Let’s discuss.”
If his father had truly wanted them dead, they’d already be gone .
His father pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “As much as it pains me to admit, Adria is right.”
Bryson’s mouth fell open. He didn’t think his father acquiesced to anyone’s opinion.
Ever.
Continuing, his father said, “The families have doubts about your ability to take over the business.”
“Who? Why don’t they tell me to my face?”
Cowards, all of them. The Triune certainly felt comfortable calling him when they needed their dirty work done. But all of a sudden he was unfit to lead.
What did they know? If they thought so little of him, why not try him and see what happens?
“You’re soft.”
Bryson spat on the floor.
“Unreliable,” his father continued his verbal chastisement.
Seth’s head was yanked back by his blond hair, the muzzle of the gun brushing his temple. Kaydon jerked against his restraints, muscles straining. His wrists were raw from the effort.
Bryson’s vision narrowed, rage clouding everything but Rolland’s face.
“You’re arrogant. Insolent. Undisciplined,” Callen continued. “You’re not fit to run this family.”
He stood and walked slowly toward the desk, looming above him. Bryson pressed his hands into his pants, trying to hide the sweat pooling on his palms.
“Bottom line. This trade route is valuable. And for once, you’re going to help this family.”
The irony was suffocating. Bryson had brought the deal forward. It was his idea, his research—and now it was being weaponized.
His father moved to Seth, taking the gun from Rolland.
“Open up, little one. ”
Bryson stood. “Dad?—”
But the word please caught in his throat as the barrel pushed into Seth’s mouth.
Bryson’s stomach turned. Seth’s teeth scraping the top of the gun.
Callen cocked the weapon.
Bryson’s whole body locked.
“I’ll go,” he said quickly, voice low. “If that’s what the family needs. I’ll do it.”
Not for the family. For Seth. For Kaydon.
Callen paused.
“You were always going to Adria’s. That was never in question. This—” his finger twitched toward the trigger, “is the lesson.”
Kaydon screamed through the gag, red soaking into the rope at his wrists.
Bryson had witnessed his father kill many times. Images of Seth’s brain being splattered against the office floor flooded his senses.
“You have allowed yourself to have attachments and, as such, are more vulnerable. It’s time you take your responsibility seriously and learn what it is to be head of the Winters.”
“If you kill him, you might as well kill me,” Bryson said.
His father stopped moving.
“Kill him, and I swear I’ll find a way to kill myself.”
There was a coldness to Bryson’s voice. A coldness inherited from his father. He never wanted to be the heir. It was never supposed to be him, but he went along with things. Went to the meetings, acted the part. But if killing his brothers is what it took for him to learn how to be the head of the family, then he wouldn’t do it.
Couldn’t do it.
Bryson said, “You barely sealed the deal with that Federov bitch. If I’m dead, you’ll never get that land. Not to mention how it would look.”
His father needed that land as much as Bryson wanted him to have it. The family was hemorrhaging power, and they were dangerously close to losing their position at the table. They needed a new cash flow and a way to secure their fourth spot in the Nine’s hierarchy. With this land, there was a potential they could even increase their seat.
His father considered his words.
He wanted him to go to Adria’s.
Needed him to.
In showing his cards, Bryson then had his own hand to play.
Kill Seth and risk losing the deal, or spare his life and gain the power he desperately sought.
His father searched his face to see if he was bluffing. Bryson stared back, knowing not an ounce of insincerity would be found.
Bryson had attachments, but he was willing to do something his father never would.
Die.
He would die for Seth and Kaydon. Any day. Any time.
Callen uncocked the gun and stepped back.
“Like I said,” he sneered. “Soft.”
Then he punched Bryson in the face.
It wasn’t a backhand. It was a full-force blow, his rings biting into Bryson’s cheekbone.
Three sharp thuds. Pain exploded across Bryson’s face.
Then a punch to the gut, and his stomach heaved. Vomit hit the marble floor. The butt of the gun struck his head, and Bryson fell to his knees.
From somewhere in the fog, he heard Seth yelling, Kaydon thrashing .
Bryson’s senses were overwhelmed by the grip of arms restraining his hands, pulling him upright. The nauseating smell of brandy and expensive cheese following him.
“Pathetic,” his father said as he delivered relentless blows to Bryson’s face and torso. He dangled limply in the strong grasps, feeling the sting of each strike.
The metallic scent of blood lingered in the air, and Bryson’s vision waned
As the blows continued, the pain melded and floated around him. Bryson’s limbs were no longer fighting, and instead they refused to move at all.
His skin tingling with numbness, his surroundings blurring into a haze. The acrid scent of brandy lingered in the air as Bryson struggled to stay conscious, his father’s movements a distant, muffled sound in the background.
Spots floated in his vision.
Callen picked up a book—heavy, leather-bound—and swung.
“Da—”
It was all Bryson was able to get out before darkness took him.
A sharp slap brought him back.
Bryson blinked, vision swimming. Pain radiated from every limb. He was released and immediately collapsed into the puddle of his own vomit.
A boot caught his side again.
He curled into himself, choking on blood, trying to protect his head, his kidneys.
Bryson gagged on blood in his throat. His hands clawing uselessly against the slick vomit-lined marble.
And then—stillness.
A cloth was handed to his father. He wiped the blood from his knuckles, placing a boot on Bryson’s shoulder, pressing down .
“You will fulfill our promise to Adria.”
Bryson lay panting on the ground. Everything hurt. He willed his body to work, but it refused.
“In exchange, I will offer them protection.” His father was close, but his voice seemed far away.
Giving him one final kick, his father sent him spiraling to his side.
Fire rolled through him, and Bryson fought to breathe.
“You finish out your service. If you try to run, I will find you, and I will make sure you stay alive long enough to watch me tear these two apart piece by piece.”
Bryson didn’t need to see his father’s eyes to know he was not bluffing.
“They come with me to Adria’s.” His words slurred as blood poured out of his mouth.
“Negotiation time is over.”
“There is no way I’m leaving them here with you,” Bryson said.
After a moment, his father nodded.
“If they want to go, I won’t stop them. But I can’t guarantee Dri will allow them to stay.”
His father went back to writing behind his desk as Bryson lay there bleeding.
The snap of fingers caused two hands to haul him up. Feet dangling inches from the floor, his father presented him with a contract.
“Put him on his feet,” his father ordered.
It took two tries for his feet to hold him. Bryson had to grip the edge of the desk for support. His breathing labored. His father may have broken a rib.
“Rolland took the liberty of drafting this for us when we were on our way home. I’ve added the stipulations you suggested,” his father said, acting as though this were a traditional business meeting.
Bryson’s vision was doubled, but he was able to read that it granted Seth and Kaydon full protection, if Bryson fulfilled his part.
With as steady of a hand as he could muster, Bryson signed the document and kissed his ring. His father did the same and with a wave of his hand, the three of them were half dragged, half carried out of the office.