Chapter 8 - THE WEIGHT OF THE IRON THRONE AND THE GHOSTS OF THE BOARDROOM
The business of the underground did not wait for the healing of wounds or the settling of nerves.
The next morning,
my study was filled with the smoke of expensive cigars and the tension of men who sensed a change in the wind.
My captains were gathered around the mahogany table,
their faces grim as they reviewed the losses from the warehouse and the docks.
"Elias is squeezing us,
Boss,"
one of them said,
a man named Marcus who had been with me since the beginning.
"Our distributors are scared,
and the street talk is that you’re losing your grip."
I sat at the head of the table,
the wheelchair a stark contrast to the power I was supposed to project.
"The street talks because it has nothing better to do,"
I said,
my voice cold and commanding.
"We’re going to hit back,
and we’re going to hit where it hurts."
As I laid out the plan to intercept Elias’s next shipment of high-end electronics,
I noticed Emma in the doorway,
carrying a tray of coffee.
She moved with a quiet grace,
ignoring the predatory looks of the men at the table.
When she reached me,
she set a cup down,
and for a brief second,
our eyes met.
She didn't look at me with fear,
nor did she look at the men with anything but professional detachment.
But as she turned to leave,
I saw her hand brush against the holster of the pistol I had strapped to the side of my chair.
It was a reminder that even here,
in the heart of my empire,
violence was never more than a heartbeat away.
After the men left,
Luke stayed behind,
shutting the double doors with a heavy thud.
"You're bringing her into the business,
Danny,"
he said,
his voice full of disapproval.
"She was in the room while we discussed the Cicero hit."
"She’s a maid,
Luke,"
I said,
though I knew the excuse was wearing thin.
"She doesn't care about the business."
"She cares about you,"
Luke countered,
stepping closer.
"And that makes her the most dangerous person in this house.
If she’s compromised,
you’re compromised."
I knew he was right,
but the thought of sending her away again was unbearable.
"I’m starting the therapy again,"
I said,
changing the subject.
Luke blinked,
surprised.
"The physical therapy?
The one you threw the paperweight at?"
"A new one,"
I said,
looking at the door where Emma had disappeared.
"And this time,
I’m not quitting until I can stand on my own two feet."
It was an impossible goal,
the doctors had said the nerves were too badly damaged.
But as I felt the weight of the crown I still wore,
I knew that if I wanted to protect her,
I couldn't just be a monarch in a chair.
May you like
I had to be the man I was before the bullet,
or something even more formidable.
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