Seventeen years after leaving Tennessee, I returned to the rotting house where I’d grown up, intending to erase the last piece of my past before a major Mafia deal closed.

The basement armory of my estate was a subterranean vault designed to withstand a direct artillery strike. Thick concrete walls, reinforced steel doors, and independent air filtration systems kept the air cool, dry, and smelling faintly of gun oil and cold stone.

At 6:30 AM, I walked down the spiral iron staircase carrying a black leather briefcase and a cup of black coffee.

Marcus was waiting by the reinforced holding cells at the back of the vault. Inside Cell 1 sat Dalton, his expensive coat rumpled, his hands still secured behind his back with zip-ties, leaning against the damp concrete wall looking like a man who had aged ten years overnight. Inside Cell 2 sat Julian Cross, his shoulder bandaged from where my bullet had grazed him through the desk drawer, staring blankly at the floor with cold, dead eyes.

“Did either of them talk?” I asked Marcus, stopping outside Cell 1.

“Dalton sang like a canary about three hours ago, boss,” Marcus smirked, tossing a digital audio recorder onto the metal table beside the cell. “Turns out mountain loan sharks aren’t built for prolonged solitary confinement in a concrete box. Julian, on the other hand, hasn’t uttered a single syllable since we threw him in.”

I picked up the recorder, pressed play, and listened to Dalton’s frantic, weeping voice confessing every detail of the conspiracy: how Julian Cross had approached him three months ago with the plan to acquire the Willow Creek property, how they intended to route illegal shipments through the local timber roads, and how the Syndicate in Nashville was backing their coup.

I clicked stop, pocketed the recorder, and looked at Dalton through the steel bars.

“Please, Mason—Mr. Calloway!” Dalton sobbed, dragging himself across the concrete toward the front of the cell. “I didn't know the kids were yours! Julian just said we needed leverage over the property transfer! He said you were getting weak!”

“You’re right about one thing, Dalton,” I said quietly, stepping closer to the bars. “I am getting weak. Soft enough to let you walk out of here alive if you sign an affidavit detailing every transaction you ever had with Julian Cross and the Nashville Syndicate.”

Dalton’s eyes lit up with desperate hope. “A-affidavit? Yeah! Give me a pen! I’ll sign whatever you want! I’ll swear to anything!”

I motioned to Marcus, who tossed a clipboard and pen into the cell.

Once Dalton’s signature was secured and witnessed by Marcus, I turned my attention to Cell 2.

I walked down the narrow aisle and stopped in front of Julian’s cell. He didn't look up immediately. He just sat on the metal cot, staring at his blood-stained cuffs.

“You always were thorough, Mason,” Julian finally said, his voice raspy and devoid of its usual corporate polish.

“You built your entire career on my coattails, Julian,” I said, leaning against the iron bars. “I pulled you out of the Shelby County precinct when you were facing ten years for extortion. I gave you stock, a title, a corner office, and a seat at my table. And you traded it all for a pat on the head from a Syndicate boss in Nashville who would put a bullet in your back the second you outlived your usefulness.”

Julian finally raised his head, his eyes burning with bitter resentment. “You think you’re a king, Mason? You’re just a glorified bouncer playing dress-up in a mansion. The world outside this state is changing. The old rules are gone. Syndicates are merging into corporate syndicates. We needed a leader with vision, not a guy who stops his multi-million-dollar real estate deals to adopt stray orphans!”

“Those kids aren't strays, Julian,” I said coldly. “They’re survivors. Which is more than I can say for you.”

I turned to Marcus. “Get the affidavit filed with our federal contacts in Knoxville by noon. And make arrangements to hand Dalton over to the state police on extortion charges—let him rot in a county cell for the next twenty years. As for Julian...”

I paused, looking back at my former vice president.

“Julian is no longer an employee of Vance Enterprises,” I said, my voice cutting through the cold vault air like a razor. “Expel him from the organization. Strip him of every asset, every account, and every title he holds. Let him walk out the front gates of this estate with the clothes on his back and nothing else. If he tries to contact the Syndicate in Nashville, our men will handle it permanently.”

Julian’s face drained of color for the first time. Stripping him of his wealth and status in the underworld was a fate far worse than a quick bullet to the head. He would be hunted by his former associates and unrecognized by the legitimate world.