Chapter 8 - The Brighton Beach UltimatumThe sun was barely cresting over the cold grey horizon of Lake Michigan when my private secure line buzzed on the mahogany desk in my study.
It wasn't an intercom chime or an internal alert. It was the direct, hard-wired red satellite channel—a frequency known to only three people on the planet.
One of them was dead. The other was Marco.
The third was Viktor Rostov.
I picked up the heavy, encrypted receiver without a moment's hesitation.
"Rostov," I said, my voice flat, cold, and utterly devoid of fear.
A low, gravelly chuckle echoed through the encrypted channel, accompanied by the clinking of ice in a heavy crystal glass. “Ryker. My old friend. Or should I say... my new domestic competitor? Word travels fast through the Chicago underground. I hear my boys went out for a late-night stroll on your pristine lawns and failed to return for breakfast.”
"Your boys brought weapons onto private property where two five-year-old children were sleeping, Viktor," I replied, each word measured like falling guillotine blades. "Consider yourself lucky I only sent back two of them in zip-ties instead of body bags."
The laughter on the other end of the line abruptly stopped. The atmosphere in the channel turned razor-sharp.
“Those children belong to my blood, Ryker,” Rostov hissed, his voice dropping into a venomous snarl. “Victoria Vance was my flesh and blood too, even if she was a foolish, greedy cow. You hijacked my legal leverage, you kidnapped my family’s heirs, and you humiliated my enforcers. You think you can just play domestic hero in your glass fortress and I’ll do nothing?”
"Victoria Vance murdered their father and tried to sell them off like stray dogs," I countered, my grip tightening on the receiver until my knuckles turned white. "And as for those children? They don't belong to your syndicate, Viktor. They bear the Steel name now. They are legally, unconditionally, and permanently mine."
A heavy, suffocating silence hung over the secure line for several seconds.
“You’ve gone soft, Ryker,” Rostov sneered quietly. “The great Steel, reduced to changing diapers and playing bedtime stories. But make no mistake—this isn't over. A blood debt is a blood debt. If I can't reach you inside your fortress, I'll tear your entire empire down brick by brick until you have nothing left to protect.”
"Try it, Viktor," I whispered, a dark, dangerous smile touching the corner of my mouth. "I spent the last twenty years building an empire out of blood and steel just waiting for someone stupid enough to give me an excuse to burn your syndicate to ashes. Let's see who survives the fire."
Click.
I slammed the receiver back onto its cradle.
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The war with Brighton Beach was officially declared. But this time, I wasn't fighting for money, turf, or power.
I was fighting for my family. And anyone who stepped across that line was going to learn why men spoke my name in whispers.
