Chapter 6 - The Fall of the East SideThe air in the foyer tasted of gunsmoke, spilled ink, and coppery blood.
Dante Rossi spat a mouthful of crimson onto the polished marble, glaring up at Julian with eyes wide with desperate terror. The untouchable capo of the East Side was broken, pinned under the heel of the man he had tried to assassinate.
"You... you can't do this, Rourke," Dante choked out, his voice shaking. "The Commission... the elders won't let you take the East Side."
Julian slowly leaned down, his face inches from Dante’s. The Reaper didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. Every word dropped like lead weights into the silence.
"The Commission is currently reviewing my quarterly financial reports, Dante," Julian murmured smoothly. "And do you know what they found? They found that you’ve been skimming from the union pensions for three years, blaming it on my crews, and planning a hostile takeover. I didn't start a war tonight. I performed a corporate audit."
Dante’s face drained of every remaining drop of color. "How... how did you—"
Julian glanced briefly up the grand staircase, where Sienna stood trembling against the banister, still clutching an empty inkwell she’d grabbed in panic.
"Never underestimate a woman who knows how to read between the lines," Julian said softly. He pressed his boot down a fraction harder on Dante's chest, eliciting a sharp, breathless gasp. "Marcus, call the cleaners. And book a permanent one-way ticket for Mr. Rossi to that shipping yard in South America. Make sure he has plenty of time to reflect on his accounting errors."
"Gladly, boss," Marcus snarled, hauling the groaning capo to his feet by his collar.
As the enforcers dragged Dante away into the Detroit night, the heavy front doors swung shut, sealing out the wind and the blood.
Julian stood alone in the center of the vast, ruined foyer for a long moment. Then, slowly, he raised his zip-tied wrists behind his back, turned toward the stairs, and looked up at Sienna.
"Well, Miss Cole," Julian said, a faint, exhausted smirk touching the corner of his bruised mouth. "Are you going to stand up there all night holding that inkwell, or are you going to come down here and cut these ties?"
Sienna let out a shaky breath, her knees finally giving out as she sat down hard on the top step. She laughed—a wild, hysterical sound born of pure shock and adrenaline—before scrambling down the stairs with a pair of office scissors in her hand.
She stood behind him, snipping the heavy plastic zip-ties with trembling fingers. As the plastic parted, Julian turned around, rubbing his wrists. He looked down at her, his dark eyes softening in a way she had never seen before.
"You threw a brass paperweight at an armed mercenary," Julian noted, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "You could have been killed."
"So could you," she fired back, her hands still shaking. "And frankly, if you died, who was going to pay my five thousand a week?"
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Julian let out a low, genuine laugh—a rich, warm sound that completely transformed his dangerous face.
"You really are something else, Sienna Cole," he murmured, gently taking her hand—the same wrist Preston Vale had bruised weeks ago—and turning it over to inspect it. "Come on. Let's get you a drink. You survived your first corporate hostile takeover."
