Chapter 3 - The Gathering of JackalsThe mahogany conference room on the top floor of the Cross Tower was normally a sanctuary of absolute power. Today, it felt like a feeding frenzy.
Twelve senior capos and syndicate advisers sat around the long table, murmuring anxiously among themselves. At the head of the table sat Griffin Cross, wearing a custom-tailored charcoal suit that cost more than a luxury car. His posture was upright, radiating a smug, unearned authority. To his right sat Victor Slade, meticulously reviewing financial ledger sheets, his face carved from stone. Paige occupied the seat beside Victor, wearing a diamond brooch she had already fished out of Nadia’s private jewelry box upstairs.
"Gentlemen," Griffin cleared his throat, tapping a gold-plated pen against the polished wood. The room instantly quieted. "We are all mourning the tragic loss of my brother, Ezra. His untimely departure is a devastating blow to the Cross Syndicate."
Several capos lowered their heads, hiding cynical smirks. Everyone knew Ezra had no love lost for his half-brother; the mourning was as fake as the designer watches on their wrists.
"However," Griffin continued, leaning forward with a predatory gleam in his eye, "business must go on. The ports are waiting, the casinos are generating cash by the minute, and leadership cannot remain a vacuum. According to the emergency contingency bylaws drafted years ago, in the absence of a direct adult heir, the primary control reverts to the senior male relative—myself—backed by our esteemed adviser, Victor Slade."
He slid a thick stack of legal documents across the table toward the senior capos.
"Sign the consensus affirmation, and we transition leadership immediately. No disruption to our operations, no interference from federal authorities."
One of the older capos, Marcus, squinted at the document. "And what about the girl? Ezra’s daughter, Rosie? Under syndicate law, a bloodline heir holds residual veto power once she reaches maturity."
Paige scoffed, rolling her eyes. "The child is hysterical, unstable, and frankly, doesn't belong in high society. Victor has already arranged for her to be placed in a... secure, private facility upstate where she can receive proper care away from the dangers of our world. Her shares will be held in a blind trust managed by Griffin, naturally."
Marcus exchanged a skeptical glance with the capos beside him. Something felt rotten. Even for a ruthless syndicate, abandoning the boss's bloodline so callously crossed a line written in blood.
Before Marcus could voice his objection, Victor Slade raised a hand, his cold eyes sweeping the room. "The decision is unanimous. Griffin assumes control. Let's finish the paperwork. Pass the pen."
Griffin picked up the heavy gold fountain pen, his hand trembling slightly with nervous anticipation. He positioned the nib over the signature line of the primary transfer deed.
"To new beginnings," Griffin whispered, pressing the pen to the paper.
Bang.
The heavy oak doors of the conference room swung open like a thunderclap in the dead of night—or rather, in the glaring light of mid-morning, bursting open with such violent force that the brass handle cracked the plaster wall behind it.
Griffin froze. The will in his hand slipped to the floor, but not a single soul bothered to look at it. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the doorway.
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Because the man who just walked in was supposed to be lying cold in the ground two weeks ago.
Ezra Cross.
