43. Michael #3
“She can’t legally try to get a dime or drag my estate into court.She’s a placeholder — nothing more.
You might want to add more assets into the trust and deed it to me.
I protected it all. If anything happens—my assets get pooled back into the families original trust. Cyclical. Clean. Untouchable.”
Roman grinned, wide and wicked. “Well fuck, Michael, sometimes I forget you’re not just muscle. You’re a fucking strategist.”
I held his gaze.
“A real marriage would give her rights,” I said. “This one doesn’t. If they kill me? The council gets nothing. The lawyers can’t contest. Everything stays locked down.”
Roman nodded slowly, impressed.
“And Krystal?” he asked.
“She doesn’t know shit,” I said. “And she won’t. As long as she plays pregnant and keeps quiet, she gets to keep breathing.”
Roman barked a laugh and slapped my shoulder again.
“I underestimated you,” he said. “I thought you were getting soft chasing that blonde around Bayview.”
I didn’t react.
“But this?” Roman continued. “This is ruthless. Smart. I like this version of you.”
I smiled without warmth.
“This is the version that survives.”
Roman pointed the cigar at me.
“Good. Because now that Kaim’s dead, things are shifting. People are nervous. Distrustful. The wrong spark could set off a damn war.”
He leaned in, voice dropping to a threat.
“Get that girl looking pregnant. Get that baby story airtight. Bring her to dinner tomorrow night. Sell the lie.”
I nodded.
“It’s handled.”
Roman grinned, satisfied.
“Then we live another day, nephew.”
Roman flicked his cigar ash into an empty champagne flute and headed for the double doors, satisfied with the lies we’d just fed the council. His shoes clicked across the marble like the ticking of a countdown.
He grabbed the handle, paused, and looked back at me over his shoulder — eyes gleaming with something ancient and cruel.
“And Michael…” he said, tone deceptively casual.
I raised an eyebrow.
“That baby isn’t just their bargaining chip.”
He tapped his temple.
“It’s ours.”
A slow grin curled across his mouth.
“He’s our heir too, Michael. Bloodline. Power. Legacy.”
He winked, deadly and amused.
“Don’t forget that.”
Then he walked out.
The doors sealed shut with a soft, final thunk.
But inside me?
Something split open.
A twist deep in my gut—sharp, electric, nauseating.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Something worse.
Realization.
Roman didn’t see a child.
He saw a weapon.
A pawn.
A future leverage point.
A prize to be chained to the empire like every generation before it.
My child — if this fertility scam actually worked — would be born into blood oaths and gun smoke.
Into a world where the first lullaby is a threat and the second is a lie.
Where innocence lasts five seconds before someone demands loyalty in return for breath.
A world where fathers die young.
Where mothers disappear.
Where love is a weakness, and a child is a tactical asset.
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
I don’t want this life for my kid.
Not the lies.
Not the violence.
Not the nights you sleep with one eye open.
Not the forced marriages.
Not the betrayals.
Not the constant fear that someone you love will be used as a bargaining chip.
Not the price of power.
If I had a child — truly had one — they deserved better.
Freedom.
A real family.
A life built on something other than blood money and body counts.
A life with Kate.
And that was the moment I knew, with a clarity sharper than a blade:
I had to burn this empire to the ground.
For my kid.
For Kate.
For whatever future we still had left.
Roman thought this fake baby would secure my loyalty forever.
But all it did was remind me why I needed out.
Why I needed her.
Why I needed a future that didn’t involve dying for men I despised or raising a child in a world poisoned by their rules.
I took a breath, steady and quiet.
Then pulled out my burner phone.
Time for a meet with Brett.
Time to set the next phase in motion.
Time to start taking my life back.
Brett was leaning against the loading dock wall, smoking a clove cigarette and watching the shadows like they owed him money. His jaw was tight, eyes sweeping the alley with the paranoia that only came from surviving too many ambushes.
He saw me, crushed out the cigarette with his boot, and straightened.
“Council buy the Russian story?” he asked.
“For now,” I said. “But trust is thin. Roman feels it. I feel it. Shit’s going to blow any minute.”
Brett nodded once, like he’d already made peace with it.
“Tell me what you need, boss.”
I took a breath — then clapped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him close so only he could hear.
“You’re the best man I’ve ever had,” I said. “My true number two. My brother. I trust you above everyone.”
Brett blinked, caught off guard.
“Ah, hell,” he muttered, rubbing his eye. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, you bastard.”
I didn’t smile.
“Listen. We don’t have time to flip every council member to the Feds. They’ll pop us before we’re done. Roman’s paranoid. Redmond too. They smell a coup.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“We go through with the baby.”
Brett grimaced. “For real?”
“Not the old-fashioned way. IVF.”
I leaned closer. “Exactly like you said. Fertility clinic. Under the table. Krystal’s on board now—she’s scared enough.”
Brett nodded, absorbing it.
“But here’s the part I didn’t tell Roman,” I continued. “He sees that baby as a pawn too. Our heir. His leverage.”
“And he’d use the kid against you,” Brett said quietly.
“Yes.”
My voice hardened. “So we’re not just saving ourselves. We’re saving that child too.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“You’re saying?—?”
“You’re going to be godfather, Brett.”
He froze.
Then blinked hard.
Then cursed.
“Oh, fuck you,” he said, his voice tight. “You’re making me cry. And I told you I don’t cry. Not even during dog movies.”
I squeezed his shoulder.
“When the empire falls, when the cards are on the table, when the blood stops spilling — it’s going to be me, you, the baby, Kate… and Claire… back in Bayview.”
He swallowed, nodding once, fiercely.
“I’m with you. All the way.”
“We protect this kid,” I said. “We protect Kate. We save our future. And we kill their dynasty without lifting a gun.”
We walked deeper into the alley, toward the old analog payphone we’d kept alive with bribes and duct tape. Brett pulled a burner from his jacket — one of the ones with zero digital footprint.
He wiped the mouthpiece.
Dialed the number.
Held the phone between us on speaker.
A gruff voice answered.
Our Federal handler.
“This line is clean,” Brett said. “Listen up. Shit’s heating up. Council wants to close ranks. Michael’s buying us time.”
I took the phone.
“Next human trafficking shipment,” I said, “is coming into the port in New Langdon.”
Silence. Then:
“Container number?”
I gave it.
Time.
Date.
Dock door.
Shift schedule.
Which guards were paid off.
Which cameras would mysteriously malfunction for twenty minutes.
Then I added:
“Three weeks from now, I’ll give you another drop. Roman will be there. Redmond. Tuscani. Valdez. The whole council.”
“You’re delivering the entire syndicate?” the agent whispered, stunned.
“Yes,” I said. “But it has to look real. Like we’re all at each other’s throats. You get them red-handed, you get RICO. And we walk free.”
“And Roman?” the agent asked.
Brett and I locked eyes.
“No bullets,” I said. “Not yet. Not unless we need to. We set him up with the others. He takes the fall with Redmond’s crew.”
“And the girl?” the fed asked. “Krystal?”
“She’s not a threat,” I said. “Not the target. Keep her out of it.”
The Fed hesitated.
“And the blonde? The one who?—”
Brett slammed the receiver against the booth wall.
“You say her name,” he growled, “and we pull the plug.”
Silence.
Then:
“Understood.”
Click.
Brett hung up the phone, breathing hard.
“Three weeks,” he said.
“Three weeks,” I echoed. “To burn it all down.”
He nodded once.
“Then let’s save your kid. And your girl.”
And together, like two wolves ready to turn on the hunters, we walked back into the neon-drenched night — toward the plan, toward the deception, toward the war we were about to unleash.
“Let’s get to work.”