“I’ve been surviving, Roman,” Claire said, her voice barely carrying above the low hum of the exposed pipes running along the basement ceiling.

Thomas lay in the mud, breathing heavily, rain plastering his dark hair across his face. He looked at the circle of syndicate captains standing around them, their weapons trained on him, their eyes filled with utter contempt.

He realized in an instant that he had been completely outmaneuvered. There was no rebellion. There was no split in the family. Roman had shown the captains the truth before Thomas had even set foot on the grass.

Thomas began to laugh—a bitter, unhinged sound that echoed through the storm.

“You always were the favorite, weren't you, Roman?” Thomas spat out blood onto the grass. “Dad gave you the waterfront, gave you the seat at the head of the table, gave you everything! And what did you do? You married a civilian! A waitress! You softened up!”

Roman didn't flinch. The barrel of his gun remained completely steady.

“I offered you a empire, Thomas,” Roman said softly. “You had a third of everything I built. It wasn't enough for you.”

“You were weak!” Thomas yelled, pushing himself up onto his knees, unbuttoning his coat with a trembling hand. “She made you weak! I did what was necessary for the business! I forced her out so you’d become the devil you used to be!”

“You threatened a pregnant woman,” Captain Dominic interjected from the terrace, his voice thick with disgust. “You threatened the boss’s blood. That isn't business, Thomas. That’s rat behavior.”

Thomas looked around at the faces of the men he thought would follow him. All he saw was absolute disgust.

“Roman...” Thomas’s voice suddenly shifted, the false bravado melting away into desperate terror as he saw Roman squeeze the trigger slightly. “Roman, we’re brothers! We grew up in the same house! You can't kill your own blood!”

“You ceased being my blood the second you put a target on my unborn son,” Roman replied smoothly.

Roman lowered the gun slightly, aiming not at Thomas’s head, but at his knee.

BANG.

A agonized shriek tore from Thomas’s throat as he collapsed onto his side, clutching his shattered kneecap, thrashing in the mud.

“I won't kill you tonight, Thomas,” Roman said, stepping over his groaning brother. “That would be too merciful. Mateo, haul him down to the cellar at the docks. Strip him of everything he owns. Every bank account, every property, every car. He will spend the rest of his life in a federal penitentiary when I hand over his private ledgers to the FBI tomorrow morning.”

Thomas looked up through his tears, his face pale with agony. “You’re... you’re turning me over to the feds? You’re a rat?!”

“I am protecting my family,” Roman said, turning his back on him. “And in my world, you are no longer family.”

The captains dragged Thomas away, his screams fading into the howling wind.

Roman stood on the lawn for a long moment, letting the freezing rain wash the scent of gunpowder from his face. He unclipped his tactical vest, dropped it onto the grass, and walked back toward the stone steps of the manor.

As he opened the heavy front door, Dr. Vance came running down the hallway, her face pale.

“Roman!” she called out.