Chapter 5 - Blood in the Boardroom
The executive suite at the top of the Cross Logistics tower in downtown Boston was a palace of glass, chrome, and calculated intimidation. The mahogany boardroom table could seat twenty, but today, only six men occupied it—Damien’s top capos, led by Victor Calloway, who sat comfortably at the head of the table as if he had already assumed the throne.
When the heavy double doors swung open, all conversation died instantly.
Damien Cross walked in alone. He moved with a terrifying, deliberate slowness, every step calculated to hide the searing pain tearing through his side. Reeves stood guard outside the closed doors, his hand resting near his concealed firearm.
Victor leaned back in his leather chair, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. "Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence. We were just discussing your retirement, Boss. Rumor has it you're getting soft—spending your nights playing house with a free-clinic nurse."
Damien didn't flinch. He walked slowly to the head of the table, placing both hands flat on the polished wood, leaning his weight forward to steady himself.
"The rumors are exaggerated, Victor," Damian said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly hum that commanded the room. "And my personal life is none of your concern."
"It becomes our concern when our boss is bleeding out in an alley and hiding behind a charity case to save his own skin," Victor snapped, standing up abruptly. He slammed his palms against the table, leaning in close. "You're weak, Damian. The syndicate needs strong leadership. I've already secured the votes of the eastern and southern capos. You step down today, or we take the territory by force."
A heavy, suffocating silence blanketed the room. The other capos stared down at their folders, refusing to meet Damian’s eyes—a clear sign that Victor’s coup had already bought them off.
Damien looked at Victor, a cold, humorless smile touching the corners of his mouth. "You think you bought the board, Victor? You think you planned this all out?"
Victor frowned, a flicker of unease crossing his features. "What are you talking about?"
Damien reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a thick manila folder, and tossed it onto the center of the table. "I'm talking about the fact that while you were busy plotting a coup, you forgot to check who was auditing your offshore shipping accounts."
Victor’s face drained of color. He snatched up the folder, flipping open the cover. Inside were detailed, encrypted bank transfers, customs manifests, and recorded phone calls proving that Victor had been systematically skimming millions from the syndicate's primary drug routes and funneling them to their bitterest rivals, the Russian Bratva.
"This... this is fabricated!" Victor stammered, his voice cracking as panic set in. "He's lying! Look at him, he's barely standing!"
"Call the guards, Victor," Damian said softly, standing up to his full height despite the agonizing pull of his stitches. "Or better yet... look behind you."
Victor spun around. The boardroom doors burst open. Reeves and a dozen of Damian’s most loyal enforcers flooded the room, their submachine guns raised, locking onto Victor and the two capos who had nodded along with his mutiny.
Victor’s hand instinctively dove toward his jacket holster, his eyes wild with desperate fury. "Traitor! You're all—"
Before Victor’s fingers could clear his holster, Damian drew his sidearm with lightning speed. A single, deafening crack echoed through the glass-walled boardroom.
Victor stumbled backward, clutching his shoulder as a clean hole punched through his designer suit, sending him crashing hard against the mahogany credenza. His gun clattered across the floor.
"Take him down to the harbor warehouse," Damian instructed coldly, his voice devoid of any human emotion as he lowered his smoking gun. "Let him think about how easy it is to betray a man who isn't dead yet."
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The enforcers grabbed Victor by the arms, hauling the screaming, bleeding traitor out of the room as the remaining capos shrank back into their chairs, trembling in absolute terror.
Damien stood alone at the head of the table, his chest heaving, a thin line of fresh blood finally soaking through his shirt where the stitches had torn under the sudden exertion.
