Chapter 6 - THE RECKONING OF THOMAS VANCE
No one moved. The syndicate bosses knew a sinking ship when they saw one. Ronan’s men were dead in the hallway, Dominic held the tactical high ground, and a terrifying child was standing by the door with enough explosives to send the entire dry dock straight to the bottom of the bay.
"You're alone, Ronan," Dominic said softly, stepping closer with every word. "You always were. You thought fear was enough to hold an empire together. But fear only works until someone isn't afraid anymore."
Ronan raised the revolver with a shaking hand, pointing it directly at Dominic’s chest. "I'll take you with me, you old bastard. I'll take all of you—"
He never finished the sentence.
General shot across the room like a furry missile, jaws snapping shut around Ronan’s wrist with bone-crunching force. Ronan screamed in agony, the revolver clattering uselessly against the hardwood floor.
Before Ronan could wrench his arm free, Dominic closed the remaining distance, grabbed his cousin by the lapels of his expensive suit, and drove him backward into the mahogany table with a force that splintered the wood down the middle.
"This is for Thomas," Dominic whispered, pressing the cold barrel of his pistol directly beneath Ronan’s chin. "And this is for believing empires are built on betrayal."
"Wait—wait, Dominic! We're family!" Ronan choked out, tears mixing with sweat as he stared up into the dead, unblinking eyes of the man he had tried to slaughter in a dark alley.
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"Family," Dominic echoed coldly, "is something you earn in the gutter. You just bought a grave."
The gunshot was muffled by the thick mahogany walls, sharp and final. Ronan Shaw’s body slumped sideways, sliding off the splintered table into the growing pool of spilled whiskey.
