Page 17 of Heresy
Then I push the chair back and stand, movement that draws every eye like magnetic force. Authority operates through positioning as much as words, physical dominance that reinforces psychological supremacy.
"Both of you are right," I begin, voice calm and authoritative. "But you're both assuming one thing. That she's just a lost photographer."
I walk slowly around the head of the table, hands clasped behind my back.
Movement designed to create tension, allow words to penetrate consciousness while physical presence reinforcesmessage. Each step measured for maximum psychological impact.
"I was there. I looked her in the eyes. Normal civilian, cornered by three of us? She would have been a screaming, crying mess. Begging for her life." I stop, make eye contact with each man. "She didn't. She just watched us."
I let observation sink into consciousness like ink spreading through water.
"Sin Santos are pushing our borders. Bratva are getting restless on the edges of our territory. And a week before a potential war, a 'lost photographer' with ice in her veins just happens to stumble upon our most private business?"
I shake my head with slow, deliberate motion.
"I don't believe in coincidences. Not in this city."
I can see a shift on their faces.
Initial bloodlust being replaced by grim, calculated suspicion. I have transformed her from a simple mistake into a possible enemy asset, civilian witness into potential threat that requires investigation rather than immediate elimination.
Convert personal complication into organizational necessity.
"So she stays," I declare, voice dropping to register that brooks no argument. "She is a club asset, and she is mine to break. I will extract every secret from her until I know who she is and what she wants. Until then, she is off-limits."
The lie tastes like tactical necessity wrapped around personal need.
I observetransformation occurring around the table like a chemical reaction reaching completion. Initial bloodlust in younger members' eyes cools, replaced by grim tacticalunderstanding that speaks to professional rather than emotional response. Older brothers simply nod, their trust in my judgment absolute after years of decisions that kept organization intact.
I have taken a chaotic personal need and forged it into a weapon they can all understand.
Give them enemies to dissect instead of a mistake to erase.
Their satisfaction settles into the room like incense, a psychological atmosphere that speaks to authority functioning exactly as designed. My sovereignty remains unchallenged, decision accepted not because it serves personal interests but because it advances organizational security.
Now for the final decree. The rules that will govern her existence.
"She is a ghost in this house," I announce, voice dropping to register that transforms words into foundation stones. "No one speaks to her. No one looks at her. No one goes near that door."
My gaze sweeps across every man at the table.
"The only man who holds the key is me."
I lock eyes with Zero, delivering a silent command that carries the weight of absolute authority.
"Any man who breaks this rule answers directly to our Sergeant-at-Arms."
Zero gives a single, slow nod. A promise of brutal enforcement. The matter is settled with the finality of a king's word becoming natural law.
From a heavy oak sideboard built against the far wall, glasses are quietly passed down the table from man to man. It's a silent, practiced ritual that requires no command, each member taking a glass before passing the stack to his brother. Rook ensures the bottle of Macallan makes the same solemn journey.
Once every man holds a glass, I pick up my own from the table. It's the signal that church is concluded, the ritual nearlycomplete except for the final benediction that binds us all. The amber liquid catches the light like liquid fire.
"To the Kin," I say, my voice a low rumble that carries reverence mixed with menace.
The sound of twenty heavy chairs scraping against concrete fills the room as every patched member rises as one
Every patched member rises as one, synchronized movement that speaks to unity forged through shared violence and mutual dependence. They raise glasses in salute that acknowledges not just brotherhood but absolute loyalty to whatever vision I choose to impose.
