Chapter 13
Aron
We have one more day until our plan goes into effect. One more day until the underworld goes up in flames.
As I had predicted, the Empire is in shambles following the kidnapping of Lucinda and Emily. They’re disorganized, scrambling to find a new leader in the void.
Strangely enough, our spies keeping tabs on the Empire haven’t seen the first sign of Emily’s return. I would have thought she’d go straight back there to coordinate her revenge, but no one has seen her since the video call last night.
That’s more disconcerting than if Emily were organizing the Empire’s full force to strike. What could that insane sister of ours be up to?
Since the strike against the Empire is soon, the mansion is almost empty.
Most of the Syndicate officers, enforcers, and assassins are mobilizing this morning.
We’ve allowed the families of our associates to move into the now vacant rooms. A handful of trained guards remain to watch over them in case someone from the Empire gets the bright idea to storm the mansion.
Speaking of storms, the rain outside refuses to let up. It pours down in sheets, and the thunder and lightning punctuate each thought with blinding and deafening forces.
“It’s like God knows what we’re planning, and He doesn’t approve.” Matt stands at our office window, watching the storm.
“You really think He’s okay with us planning the mass slaughter of our enemies?”
“He could at least pretend to be on our side in this,” he says, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “It would ease some nerves around here.”
Since we’re alone, I walk up behind Matt and wrap my arms around his waist. “Maybe the storm is a warning to the Empire. Maybe it’s got them quaking in their boots.”
Matt leans into my touch. “Some of them might be. The new blood. But not the defectors.”
“They’ll get their comeuppance.”
We stand like that for a few minutes, sharing our warmth. It’s nice, but I know it can’t last.
Since our plan requires synchronization, we have Holly and Hank forwarding our texts across the entire Royal Syndicate phone system. Any orders are dispersed in an instant.
The twins have been working overtime for the past few days.
In addition to acting as our electronic messenger pigeons, they’ve also been draining the Empire bank accounts on a massive level.
If anyone in the Empire so much as tries to purchase a pack of cigarettes using one of their cards, it’ll be declined.
Those funds get funneled into our coffers, which helps pay for any tools our associates need for the coming attacks.
This newfound bankruptcy is irritating the Empire members. They’re striking out, hitting known Syndicate-owned businesses and warehouses. We’re well enough defended that their attacks have little to no effect, but it’s still annoying to deal with.
Without Emily or Lucinda’s guidance, the Empire is, as I predicted, floundering.
Their feeble attempts at posturing fall flat.
Interestingly enough, our spies can’t identify anyone claiming to be in charge, nor any frontrunners for the position.
We keep hoping the Empire will fizzle out without much more bloodshed, but it’s hanging on like a pitbull that got ahold of a juicy bone.
Refuses to let go, refuses to die, just snarling at us, snapping at us, and baring its teeth.
By this time tomorrow, that dog will be put down.
A knock on our office door draws our attention back to the here and now. We’re not expecting any visitors, and our men should all be too busy to interrupt us.
“Yes, Percy?”
“Don Matteo, Don Aron, John Brown has business with you.”
Matt stiffens in my arms, and my blood runs cold.
There’s no John Brown in the Syndicate.
John Brown is code for an enemy at the door. It’s a common enough name to avoid rousing suspicion if used but one that will instantly alert any Syndicate member of potential danger.
We draw our guns simultaneously and stand on either side of the door. “Send him in,’’ I say on Matt’s signal.
The door inches open, and Percy shuffles in. His gait is off, but it’s not until he’s far enough in for us to see the delicate hand holding a knife at his back that we understand what’s happening.
Despite having top-notch security measures in place, Emily got in.
“Hello, husband!” she chirps as she forces Percy farther through the doorway. “You sure do make it difficult for your wife to visit you at work.”
Beneath the blood-drenched raincoat she wears, a layer of crusty blood covers her face and neck.
Likely she hasn’t bathed since she murdered Enzo.
His blood is so caked on that not even the torrential downpour outside could wash it from her skin.
Her coat, however, has only fresh blood on it, meaning she has killed some of our men on her way into the mansion.
“Hey, there, sis. Come to borrow our shower?”
Emily scowls at Matt, her blue eyes blazing through the mask of blood. “I’m here for my husband, brother mine. I have no use for you at the moment.”
Poor Percy is rigid, drenched in sweat, his eyes wide in terror.
“Emily,” I say, hoping to distract her, “he got you in where you wanted. Maybe you could take the knife away. Matt and I are effectively a captive audience now.”
“Hmm …” She taps her chin with her free hand. “Perhaps, but what if I want the whole Syndicate’s attention? The dozen dead guards might be a good start, sure, but maybe what I need is a solid thirteen.”
Matt keeps the barrel of his gun trained on Emily as she fully enters the room. We each give her a wide berth, as we don’t want to startle her into harming Percy.
“Are you counting Enzo in your dozen?”
Matt’s question is a valid one. If she’s fixated on killing thirteen men, maybe she’ll let Percy go.
The tip of the knife pushes harder against Percy’s back, and a small blossom of red forms around it. Emily broke the skin, but she hasn’t seriously hurt him yet. That could change in a nanosecond, though.
“Enzo wasn’t even the first Syndicate guard I killed,” she hisses. “But that was before; this is today. The count resets.”
That is disturbing. When this is over, we’ll have to go back over the roster and see if anyone has gone missing recently that we can attribute to Emily.
“Honey …” I start by using an old nickname from the days when I thought our marriage was legitimate. “I think you have the Syndicate’s undivided attention right now. There’s no need to add to the body count.”
Emily grabs Percy by his throat and flicks the tip of the knife, flinging blood across the room and slicing open Percy’s shirt and back.
Percy cries out, but we can’t safely step in to help yet.
“Don’t talk to me about body count, Aron.
I have always been faithful to you. Always. Even before we met.”
Fighting back the surge of nausea that every time our marriage is mentioned, I take a cautious step towards them.
“Emily—”
“Shut the fucking door, Aron!”
She’s getting agitated. This is bad.
Matt kicks the door closed then steps back from Emily and her hostage.
Percy was our only guard on duty. While most of our forces are in the wind, ready to attack tomorrow, we’ve been running with a skeleton crew in the mansion. Most of them have been assigned to the families we took in to protect them from Empire retaliation.
If Emily truly killed every guard she met on the way in, then no one else knows she’s here.
No one knows she has us trapped.
“We’ve got guns on you, Emily.” Matt gestures with his weapon. Do you really think you’re getting out of here alive?”
She shrugs and squeezes Percy’s throat, choking him. “Maybe none of us will leave here alive. Maybe we’ll all go down in a blaze of glory.”
What is she talking about?
Percy gags and coughs, and Emily lets up on his throat just enough for him to speak.
“She’s wired, boss.”