18. Dave
18
Dave
A fter a pleasant lunch with Alexia and Rose, I excuse myself and head to the study. As I step inside, I’m reminded of entering a cave when I was younger. The room is wrapped in shadows, softened only by the slivers of daylight that filter through the heavy, dark blue curtains framing the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s a room of carved wood and quiet power, with each arch and gilded edge whispering of secrets and machinations. The ceiling, painted with subtle flourishes of gold, gleams under the faint light, adding a sense of weight and authority to the space. This is a place built to contain things that should never see the outside world.
The scent of old books and bold cigars clings to the air, mingling with the rich, smoky bourbon I pour into a crystal glass. The amber liquid catches the rays of light like flames. I take a long, slow sip, letting the burn settle into my veins, grounding me as I prepare to dig into Dad’s files. I take a seat behind the massive mahogany desk, sinking into the leather chair that creaks under my weight.
The whiskey, the dim light, the jazz music humming from the hidden speakers—it all creates a cocoon. I never questioned Dad’s methods, never needed to. He ruled the Syndicate with a precision that kept chaos at bay, a discipline that others either respected or feared. He has always been my rock, the kind of man who could hold a family together while the world around us fractured and burned. But even a fierce leader such as Jack Boyle had his limits. There were lines my father would never cross, compromises he wouldn’t make, not even to keep our empire steady.
I lean back, staring at the neat stack of flash drives and hardbound journals spread before me, each a breadcrumb from the life Dad led as head of the Syndicate. These aren’t just remnants; they’re history, decisions, legacies—and cautionary tales. And I’m about to tear into them. It’s not the first time I’ve gone through these documents. Today, I’m looking for specific clues as to what Igor might be planning.
Picking the journal sitting on the top of the pile, I smooth its burgundy cover before undoing the strap of leather that ties it closed. A wave of nostalgia washes over me as I scan my father’s handwriting. He kept everything meticulous. I always admired that about him—his quiet order, his precision. He knew exactly when to act, when to let things simmer, and when to strike. But he protected me, too, from seeing the darkest corners of his empire. Even when he stepped down and I inherited it. It took me a long time to fully realize what he was safeguarding me from. I still see it in his eyes, that steel resolve hiding his vulnerabilities. Dad has always wanted my brothers and me to be strong, but not like him. He wants us to be better. But you don’t stay clean when you’re drenched in blood. Even the best intentions die that way.
A soft knock on the door pulls me from my focus on the journal, and before I can respond, Angus strides in, the glint of steel in his blue eyes tempered by the quiet warmth of an old friend. His dark hair falls messily over his forehead, and his strong frame fills the doorway, a reminder of the countless times he’s stood watch for our family, silently shouldering the risks that come with loyalty to the Boyles.
“Brought what you asked for,” he says, holding up a black case containing hard disks that Nikolai hacked and sent me.
I wave him in. “Good timing. I was just going through Dad’s notes.”
He places the case on the edge of the desk and settles into one of the leather armchairs across from me. It’s a comfort to have Angus here. His father used to be my dad’s right-hand man. He was loyal to the core. Now Angus and I carry on that unbreakable bond forged by our families. Long gone are the days we spent roughhousing as kids. Angus is a ruthless enforcer now, a man I trust with my life. He’s even taken a bullet for me.
“Seems like you’re buried in ghosts.” He points at the books and folders on the table.
A smirk edges onto my lips. “Igor’s forcing me to dig up memories I’d rather leave buried.”
Angus crosses his arms, watching me with the cool intensity he’s honed over the years. “Jack began stepping back three years now, correct? You still miss him at the helm?”
His question carries the weight of history and loyalty. It highlights the silent bond between us, two men who understand the price of leadership.
“It wasn’t the same after Mom passed,” I reply, swirling the whiskey in my glass. “He lost a part of himself, like all his drive went with her. He wasn’t Jack Boyle, the merciless boss, anymore. He was a man grappling with unbearable loss. Dad loves us boys, but Mom was his whole world. After she died, he started passing things on to me. One day, it was overseeing a shipment. Next, managing the men. Before I knew it, I was in his chair. And he… well, he began to fade out.”
Angus watches me, his gaze softening. “Aye, I remember that time. There were nights I’d catch him staring off, like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn’t.”
“A bit haunting, to be honest,” I confess as my mind revisits those painful days.
Angus sets his lips in a thoughtful line. “Funny thing is, I remember when you were just a scrawny fifteen-year-old, all bones and attitude, after that first fight. You had a hell of a shiner, blood still smeared down your jaw.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Jack just stood there, didn’t he? Not a word until you looked him in the eye.”
I repeat Dad’s words, imitating his groveling tone, “Don’t ever throw the first punch, David. But if you have to fight, end it fast. And remember, your strength is for the family.”
I smile at the memory.
“Spot on!” Angus praises.
I let my eyes drift back to the journal in my hands. “Dad wasn’t teaching me to fight; he was teaching me loyalty. He wanted me to understand what strength really meant. I think about it now, with all this betrayal surfacing, and I wonder if he saw something I didn’t.”
Angus shifts in his chair, his expression turning serious. “Jack wanted to protect you. He taught us both that loyalty is everything in this world, and he expected it from everyone.” A flicker of something dark crosses his face as he looks at me. “I wonder if your old man ever saw what some of these men around us are really made of.”
My eyes narrow as I study him, catching the hint of mistrust in his voice. “You have someone in mind?”
He hesitates before replying, “I’d never question the loyalty of our men. But there’s been talk about someone working both sides. A snake slithering through our ranks, close enough to undermine everything you’re working to hold together.”
Anger flares up, igniting a fire under my skin. “And yet, every man I look at swears loyalty. I’ve known them all my life. Same as you, Angus. They have more to gain from keeping things steady than from betraying us. But if there’s one traitor…”
“We’ll find him,” Angus interrupts, his voice firm. “You have my word on that. I’ve got my eyes on a couple of men who’ve been acting weird.” He holds my gaze, but there’s a reluctance that surprises me.
“Say what you’re really thinking,” I order.
He meets my stare without flinching. “Whoever this mole is, he’s smart. Smart enough to keep his hands clean, not one of the old guard. Or he’s always played his hand too close to his chest.”
I take a slow breath, the weight of his words sinking in. “Give me a name,” I say, voice barely above a whisper, testing him.
Angus hesitates. “It could be anyone. But I’d keep an eye on Mike. He’s only twenty-five. He’s got ambition. He seems like the type who could be flipped.”
I weigh the implications. Mike has always been loyal—at least outwardly. But if Angus suspects him, I need to start looking at the man in a different light.
“Noted,” I say, my voice laced with cold resolve. “But if he’s involved with Igor, it won’t end well for him.”
Angus nods, and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “Good to know you’re not losing that edge, Dave. We’ll see this through.”
I rise from the chair, walk to the bar, and pour a fresh dose of whiskey for myself and for Angus.
Returning to my seat, I hand him the glass and say, “To loyalty.”
“To the Boyles,” he murmurs, clinking his glass against mine.
I catch a dark gleam in his eyes that gives me pause. Angus has always been a friend, a brother in all but blood. And yet it strikes me that even he has secrets I might never know.
A long silence stretches between us. I trust him—of course, I do. He’s Angus, the boy who stood at my side through thick and thin, who fought and bled beside me many times. But as I look at him now, a shadow crosses his face.
“You think Mike is the only one playing both sides?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.
His jaw tightens. “If anyone is, that’s Mike. Be careful, Dave.”
His warning hangs heavy in the air. He tosses his head back, emptying the glass before standing up and heading for the door. I watch him go, the faintest hint of doubt gnawing at me. As the door clicks shut behind him, I’m left with the dark suggestion that maybe, just maybe, the betrayal lies closer than I’d ever thought possible.
Angus and I have fought side by side, shared secrets. Now, as I look at the hard disks he left, a thought I never would have considered strikes me.
Everyone has secrets. Even those we trust with our lives.
Forcing my attention back to the task at hand, I open the laptop and navigate to the encrypted folders. Each one is named and cataloged in a way that only Jack Boyle could pull off. As I unlock the files, my screen fills with emails, messages, and archived reports from decades ago. Each one feels like an invasion into the past, a trip into the cold, strategic mind of a man who walked the finest line between loving father and dark leader. And damn, I’ve always respected him for it. Hell, I’ve loved him for it.
I click on a digital folder marked Confidential. Most of these files are Syndicate archives Jack left for me, things he told me I would understand only when I was ready. Sergei and Oleg Vasilyevich, Igor’s father and uncle, their names pop up like dark stains against the page.
One file catches my eye—a series of emails exchanged between Dad and Sergei. Sergei’s name has always been familiar, but here, in black and white, it feels sinister, coiled with intent. Sergei and his brother Oleg were pillars in their brotherhood and supposed allies within the Syndicate. Dad trusted them. Trusted them to be partners, guardians of the same code he held dear. And yet... something in the tone of these messages prickles at the back of my neck.
The first email is a polite exchange on the surface, but there’s an undertone—Sergei asking for favors, veiled in language about shared interests and protection. My father’s responses are firm, controlled, but the tension jumps at me between the lines. Sergei pushed the Syndicate boundaries, used his position for his own gain, his own ambition.
My fingers tighten on the mouse, eyes scanning every line. This wasn’t an alliance; it was manipulation. Sergei and Oleg carved out their power by feeding off the Syndicate, using my father’s trust as a shield. The muscles in my jaw throb as I skim through more messages. Sergei’s requests become demands, his language darker, bolder. Oleg is mentioned in passing as the enforcer handling Sergei’s dirty work. Blood on his hands, bodies piling up wherever the Vasilyevich brothers went. Quiet eliminations of anyone who stood in their way, chalked up to accidents or business disputes. Dad kept it all in these files—an unspoken confession that he’d been forced to play this game to keep the Syndicate intact, sacrificing his own sense of justice for the greater good.
A flash of memory hits me. I’m eighteen, standing in Dad’s study after a job gone horribly wrong. Bloodied knuckles, anger burning hot under my skin. I wanted revenge.
“I’ll watch that fucker bleed slowly to death,” I vowed, referring to the Russian snitch who had fed me false information that led me to kill the wrong man. He wasn’t innocent at all. Still, he wasn’t the mole I was looking for.
My father just stood there, unflinching, a calm storm as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Control your anger, David,” he’d said. “Don’t let it control you. There’s a bigger picture you can’t see yet.”
I finally see that picture now—his steady hand keeping chaos from spilling over. His silence, his restraint, even in the face of betrayal, wasn’t weakness. It was the kind of strength that only a few men possess. He took on that weight so I wouldn’t have to.
But here I am, digging up the ghosts now.
I click on a file Nikolai has hacked, a fresh addition, full of bank records and shell companies connected to the Vasilyevichs. As I scan through the spreadsheets, something becomes painfully clear—Igor’s picked up right where his father left off. Money flowing through networks, funds moving from one shell company to another, all pointing to something much bigger than I realized.
I scroll further down, fingers hovering over an email exchange marked Urgent. It’s a conversation between Sergei and Oleg, dating to a year before the Syndicate booted them out. They’re talking about bringing in outside forces, expanding their reach. Names pop up—shady contacts I recognize. A pit forms in my stomach. They were building a network of mercenaries, quietly growing their empire within our ranks. And now, their son is taking it to the next level.
A cold anger stirs inside me, settling into my gut like a stone. The Vasilyevichs have never stopped. Sergei and Oleg drove their business into the ground. Igor has been laying the groundwork for years. There are multiple mentions of a leader called Dracul. The name means nothing to me. Apparently, people are terrified of him. Igor has also built new alliances within the Camorra and the cartels. He’s been buying loyalty and setting the stage for something huge.
My heart drops to my stomach as a realization hits me. Igor never wanted to get back into the Syndicate. His endgame is to tear us apart, to obliterate us. I grip the edge of the desk, fingers digging into the polished wood, fury pulsing through me. This isn’t a plan for a power grab. This is a goddamn declaration of war. All these years, Igor has been planning to gut us from the inside.
I slam a fist down on the desk, rattling the crystal glass. “Motherfucker! Who the hell is the mole helping Igor?”
I reach for the whiskey again and take a long sip. I relish the heat burning through the cold rage twisting inside me. The edges of my control are fraying, slipping like sand through my fingers. Dad’s code, his restraint, his sacrifices—Igor spits on all of it.
I close my eyes, leaning back in the chair. My father’s voice echoes in my head, steady as always, a reminder of the lessons he drilled into me over years of training. “Never act on impulse, David. Always think ten steps ahead.”
But this feels personal. Sergei and Oleg didn’t just betray the Syndicate. They betrayed my father, twisted his trust, his principles, into weapons against us. And now, it’s up to me to clean up the mess they left behind.
The implications hit me all at once, like ice water down my spine. Igor isn’t just a problem. He’s a ticking bomb with an unknown ally embedded deep within the Syndicate’s core. And if I don’t act, if I don’t dismantle this web of deceit and power, everything will crumble.
Anger bubbles up again, an unfiltered rage that I struggle to contain. The desire to expose every single secret buried in these files boils under my skin. But I know I have to be smart. I have to play this right. If I move too soon, too openly, Igor will see it coming.
But he won’t get that chance. Not this time.
The soft chime of my phone pulls me from the rage tightening like a noose around my throat. I glance at the screen, expecting one of the usual names—Nikolai, Tommy, or Shelby—but instead, it’s Nick. Why the hell is my youngest brother calling me when his rock band is touring the world?