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.

While Eli and his siblings spent their afternoon exploring the estate gardens with Mrs. Gable, I had more pressing matters to attend to across town.

The headquarters of the Nashville Syndicate wasn't located in some dingy back alley or abandoned warehouse. It was housed on the top floor of a gleaming glass-and-steel skyscraper in downtown Nashville, operating under the front of an international logistics and investment conglomerate called Vanguard Holdings.

At 2:00 PM my black Cadillac pulled into the subterranean parking garage of the Vanguard building.

Marcus and four of my most trusted enforcers stepped out with me, wearing charcoal suits and sunglasses, moving with the synchronized precision of an executive security detail. We didn't bother checking in at the front lobby. We walked straight to the private executive elevator bank, bypassed the security turnstiles using an override code, and pressed the button for the penthouse floor.

When the elevator doors slid open on the fortieth floor, two armed Syndicate guards reached instinctively for their shoulder holsters.

Marcus cleared his weapon from its holster in half a second, pressing the barrel firmly against the nearest guard’s throat while my other men locked down the corridor.

“Don’t even think about it,” Marcus snarled.

I stepped past them calmly, adjusting my cuffs, and pushed open the massive mahogany double doors leading to the executive boardroom.

Seated around a polished granite conference table were four men: aging capos and regional directors who controlled the narcotics, freight, and gambling rackets across Tennessee. At the head of the table sat Arthur Vance—no relation to my family, but a ruthless old-school boss who ruled the Nashville underworld with an iron fist.

Arthur looked up from his papers, his eyes narrowing as I walked uninvited into his boardroom.

“Mason Calloway,” Arthur said, his voice cold and gravelly. “You’ve got a lot of nerve walking into my building unannounced, especially after what happened to your vice president last night.”

I pulled out the chair directly opposite Arthur, sat down slowly, and placed a thick manila folder on the granite table.

“Word travels fast in this city,” I said smoothly.

“Julian Cross was our primary conduit for expanding our logistics footprint into East Tennessee,” Arthur growled, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “By locking him in your basement and dismantling his operation, you’ve declared open war on the Syndicate, Mason. You think because you own a few freight lines in Memphis you can stand up to us?”

I didn't flinch. I slowly opened the manila folder and slid two documents across the granite table toward him.

The first was Dalton’s signed affidavit detailing the entire conspiracy between Julian Cross and the Nashville Syndicate to seize my childhood property for illegal smuggling.

The second was a comprehensive financial audit tracking three million dollars in illegal wire transfers originating from Vanguard Holdings straight into offshore accounts managed by Julian Cross.

Arthur glanced down at the papers. The color slowly drained from his weathered face.

“What is this?” Arthur demanded, though his voice lacked its previous conviction.

“This is federal-grade evidence,” I said quietly, leaning back in my chair and interlocking my fingers. “Copies of this file are currently sitting in a secure dead-drop managed by my legal team in Knoxville. If I don't walk out of this building in twenty minutes, those files go straight to the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

The other capos around the table began murmuring nervously, shifting in their seats as they realized the magnitude of the exposure.

“You’re bluffing,” Arthur spat, though his hands trembled slightly as he clutched the edge of the table. “If you go to the feds, your own books get opened up too! You’ll go down with us!”

“Try me,” I smiled, my eyes locking onto his with absolute, terrifying calm. “I’ve spent the last three years cleaning my books, laundering my assets into legitimate real estate, and insulating my family holdings. I can survive a federal audit. Can Vanguard Holdings survive a RICO indictment?”

Arthur stared at me, his chest heaving as he weighed the options. He was a businessman first and a gangster second. He knew when a hand was unwinnable.

“What do you want?” Arthur asked through clenched teeth.

“Three things,” I said, holding up my fingers one by one.

“First, East Tennessee freight routes remain exclusively under my control, free from Syndicate interference—permanently. Second, any debt, claim, or obligation associated with the children from Willow Creek Road is nullified, erased, and forgotten across every ledger in this state. And third...”

I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“You stay out of my way.”

Arthur stared at me for a long, agonizing silence. The boardroom was so quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioning overhead.

Finally, Arthur slowly let out his breath, leaning back in his leather chair.

“Done,” Arthur whispered.

I stood up, buttoned my jacket, and pulled the manila folder back toward me.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Arthur,” I said smoothly.