Chapter 7 - A Brother’s Judgement
The subterranean training room beneath the carriage house was soundproofed with reinforced concrete and thick rubber padding. It was the place where Dominic had spent fifteen years sparring with Nathan Cross, preparing for the violent realities of their underworld life.
Now, Nathan sat strapped to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the ring, his broken knee crudely splinted, his shirt torn and bloodied.
The door opened with a heavy thud. Dominic stepped inside alone. He removed his suit jacket, draped it over the corner ropes of the ring, and rolled his crisp white shirt sleeves up to his elbows.
Nathan raised his head, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the concrete floor. He chuckled, a ragged, broken sound.
“You came alone, Dom?” Nathan sneered. “Too proud to let your soldiers watch you execute your oldest friend?”
Dominic walked to the equipment bench, picked up a clean white towel, and wiped his hands. “I don't need an audience, Nathan. I just want to understand one thing.”
“There’s nothing to understand!” Nathan shouted, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “You took everything! The respect, the empire, the fear! I was the brains! I kept the books balanced, I bought the politicians, and you just walked into rooms looking dangerous, and everyone bowed down! Why you? Because your father was an assassin? Because your blood was supposedly royal?”
Dominic stepped into the center of the room, standing three feet from the chair.
“When Isabella died,” Dominic said quietly, “you held me in that hospital room for eighteen hours while I tried to blow my own brains out with my service pistol. You took the gun from my hand. You told me that a brother’s job is to carry the weight when the other man breaks.”
Nathan’s jaw tightened. A flicker of real, ancient pain crossed his eyes before he masked it with defiance. “That was a long time ago. Before I realized you’d never share the throne.”
“I gave you the northern port contracts, Nathan,” Dominic said, his voice deadly steady. “They were worth eighty million dollars a year. That wasn't an empire? That wasn't a throne?”
“It was crumbs from your table!” Nathan roared, straining against the heavy ropes binding his arms. “I wanted the crown! And if Claire hadn't panicked and locked that maid up instead of cutting her throat, you’d be floating face down in the Hudson right now!”
Dominic looked at him for a long, quiet minute. The anger that had burned inside him for twenty-four hours didn't explode into violence. Instead, it cooled into absolute, frozen finality.
“You’re right,” Dominic whispered. “Mia should have been dead. And by all rights, I should put a bullet through the back of your skull right now.”
Dominic reached behind his back, pulled his 1911 from his holster, and racked the slide. The metallic click sounded like a thunderclap in the small room. He raised the barrel and pressed it against the center of Nathan’s forehead.
Nathan’s breathing stopped. The bravado vanished from his eyes, replaced by the primal, helpless terror of a man staring into his own grave.
“Do it,” Nathan whispered, trembling. “Finish it, Dom.”
Dominic’s finger rested on the trigger. For three seconds, the entire universe hung in the balance.
Then, Dominic lowered the weapon.
He engaged the safety and slid the pistol back into his holster.
“Death is too easy for you, Nathan,” Dominic said calmly. “If I kill you, you die thinking you were a martyr. A tragic brother betrayed by a tyrant.”
Dominic turned toward the door and knocked twice.
Marcus stepped inside, carrying an iron lockbox and a thick folder of legal documents.
“Every asset you own has been liquidated,” Dominic said without looking back. “Your offshore accounts have been seized under federal forfeiture. In one hour, you will be placed on a cargo vessel bound for a mining operation in northern Siberia. You will work twelve-hour shifts in thirty-below weather under guards who don't speak English and don't care who Nathan Cross used to be.”
Nathan’s eyes blew wide in sheer horror. “No! Shoot me! Dom, damn you, look at me! Shoot me!”
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“You wanted to be independent, Nathan,” Dominic said, opening the door and stepping out into the clean, cold corridor. “Now you have the rest of your life to enjoy it.”
The heavy steel door slammed shut, cutting off Nathan’s desperate screams forever.
