Page 19 of Claimed By the Ruthless King
“Clearly not as wild as yours,” says Robert, gesturing to my crotch as he passes by, taking a look through the window. “How times change. One day you’re scrounging around at the very bottom, the next you’re standing at the very top of the world with your cock out.”
“Hard work gets you far,” I grunt, putting my dick away and zipping my pants.
“Killing gets you far,” corrects Robert, turning away from the window to face me.
“I assume Wilson has been taken care of?”
“Yes,” says Robert, helping himself to the decanter in the center of the table, pouring himself a generous glass of wine. “We’ll announce his tragic death to the rest of the company tomorrow first thing, holding a funeral.”
“Count me out.”
“It may work in your favor to attend, appearance wise. With Crows lingering in the city, we need to act preventatively, giving the public no reason to suspect you in any way.”
“I won’t be attending the man’s funeral when he has the nerve to bite the hand that has been consistently feeding him for seven years.”
“I understand,” says Robert, sitting at the table, his face illuminated in the candle chandelier hanging above.
An hour later, men enter the penthouse in a staggered fashion, helping themselves to wine at the table, treating my penthouse like an observatory as they wander around, watching the sunset.
I’ve called Billionaire's Row home for five years, living the same lucrative life I used to resent others having, back when I was young. Chandeliers are highly unnecessary, so are decanters, but having these items in my house serves as a reminder of how hard I have worked over the past few decades.
“This meeting is now in session,” I call, taking a seat at the head of the table as men gather around. “We have much to discuss, gentlemen, and very little time to do it.”
“Somewhere else you need to be?” Robert flashes me a wink.
I flash him a glare and return my attention to the table. “Some of you might be familiar with the Crows.”
“Rest in peace to Renato Vieri,” snorts one of my men. “He took his legacy to the grave with him.”
“There is no legacy in recruiting homeless boys,” chimes in another.
“Unfortunately, I disagree,” I say, taking a sip of wine, setting it down on the white tablecloth. “A salesman at Moretti Global has been assassinated today after talking about our business, sticking his nose in things that are way above his paygrade.” I examine the red wine, admiring the thick, crimson consistency. “This particular gentleman also mentioned the Crows.”
A few of my men rise, intrigued, arching their brows, keen to hear more. I stroke my lip, deep in thought. Their eager reaction highlights the fact that organization was never fully put to bed. Renato Vieri has indeed created a lasting legacy. Men can forget, but broken boys cling onto the trauma forever, never fully letting go of the past.
“Well,” says one of them, urging me to continue. “What was said?”
“Bits and pieces,” I reply, taking another sip of wine. “The salesman mentioned something in passing about a self-storage unit in Queens, the unit containing Crow information.”
“How would the salesman know about this?”
“You can hazard a guess,” I say, glancing around the table. “You say the organization ended with the leader, but the past never fully disappears.”
“People are still clinging onto fragments,” continues Robert, taking a long sip of wine. “Salvatore and I have hired an informant to look into the Queens storage unit. We bought the unit before anyone else could get their hands on it, but before the informant could open the thing up, he was attacked by somebody else on the scene.”
“He stumbled into my office this morning with bad attitude and a broken nose.”
“Did he see who attacked him?” asks one of the men.
“No, his face was fully covered.”
“Perhaps it was the salesman.”
“He was already dead by this point,” explains Robert.
I swill wine around in the glass, the wooden chair creaking as I sit back, assessing my men. “The attack has put things into perspective for us, gentlemen.”
“We have enemies.”
