Page 12 of Judgment Day

SEVEN

Sadie’s eyeswere haunted and distant, not bright and hopeful like they used to be. I hated myself for that.

I’d spent years convincing myself I needed to win her trust again, saying I didn’t want to push her into things she wasn’t ready for. I didn’t want to be another man who took without earning. I wanted everyone to know she was mine.

You’re too late.

The moment I was set free from prison, the first thing I wanted to do was run straight to her, but I’d walked back into the free world a powerless man. In our world, knowledge was power, and I’d used all of mine to buy my freedom. Within those walls, I’d made a name for myself among the inmates, earned their trust with every stripe on my back. I wasn’t just another privileged asshole doing white-collar time. My scars made me one of them. I’d learned things, seen things, done things—things people in high places didn’t want discovered. In exchange for my silence, they gave me freedom—claiming something about “new evidence” and “re-opening the case.” There were people, people with connections, knowledge,power, who weren’t happy about my release or how I’d acquired it. My bloodline saved my seat in the Brotherhood, but it couldn’t save my life. I had to do that all on my own. I needed to make them fear me. And that kind of fear, the kind that made men cower at the mention of your name, took time.

For years, I played my part, did what needed to be done. I became the man Sadie needed me to be in order to save her. I made enemies. And I made alliances. When Caspian finally got his inheritance, killed his father and sealed his place on the Tribunal, the dominoes began to fall. There were only two seats left to be taken. Chandler would handle his father—he’d made that clear—and Winston’s time was coming to an end. Soon, the Tribunal would belong to us.

You’re too late.

Her words were like a match, sparking a flame and burning me alive. But not because she’d said them… or felt them. Not because when I was alone with her in the Sacristy, I’d felt them, too. They hurt so much because I was afraid they were true.

This—saving her, claiming her, taking her—had always been the lighthouse guiding my way. The storm was almost over, but it felt as though I’d already crashed into the shore. I was thrashing against the waves, trying to stay afloat, and I had no idea why.

Maybe I couldn’t save us.

Maybe we would both drown.

But I owed it to us both to try.

That was why I came here. I needed to know if I was broken. Ifwewere broken.

And I walked out of her room, knowing we were nothing more than shattered pieces. The shards would either come together in a beautiful mosaic or cut us open until we bled.

“Hello, Winston,” I said when I found him in his study. He looked a wreck. His head rested on the back of a leather chair. His legs sprawled on in front of him. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, and his hair was a mess. An open bottle of whiskey dangled from his fingers.

He leaped out of his chair, stopping inches in front of me. Whiskey sloshed around the bottle as he pointed at my chest. “You did this.” His voice thundered over the classical music in the background. He dropped his hand. “You sucked him in with your selfish need for revenge, and it got him killed.” Spit flew like venom from his mouth with every word. “You did this!”

“I did this?” I ran a hand over my face, slowly wiping away his saliva. “You’re more delusional than I thought.” I stepped closer to him, eating up all the air between us as I looked him in the eye. His voice was riotous. Mine was composed, even though my heart was still racing from my moment with Sadie. “You stole my life so you could play some twisted game. You sold your own daughter for fuck’s sake.” I took a step back. “You’re sick, Winston. You all are. I knew it. Liam knew it.” He winced at the mention of his son. I used it as a weapon. “Did you think he was just going to follow in your footsteps? He wanted to stop you.Thatis what got him killed. You. Your needs. Your sickness. Your game. Not me.”

His chest heaved. His bloodshot eyes watered. His teeth gritted as he said, “I will end you.”

I smirked. “You already tried. Now it’s my turn to endyou.”

* * *

One week later, I was in New York City with the Brotherhood. Caspian offered one of his buildings as a new meeting site for our U.S. gatherings. Until now, all meetings on American soil had either been at Crestview Lake or The Grove. Since Kipton’s death, Caspian’s mother controlled the board at Donahue Enterprises, but Caspian ran things—although, it was from behind a computer screen. She knew all about how he and Tatum had survived the plane crash. He’d given her proof of life—a vague note left inside a childhood book, and she’d vowed to take that secret to the grave.

Donahue Plaza consisted of three buildings—glass and steel giants rising from the concrete into the open sky. The Plaza was located in the heart of Manhattan, right off Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Silver statues and art-deco fountains decorated the front of each building. Inside, Donahue Enterprises rented out office spaces to companies like NBC andPeoplemagazine.

On the top floor of the tallest of the three buildings was a restaurant called the Skyline Room, used mainly for private events. This was where we held our meeting. Through the wall of windows, the Empire State Building lit up the midnight sky. Bright blue and amber lights scattered across the landscape. There was a certain power in feeling as though you stood on top of the world, in knowing that the men in this room had their fingerprints on every single one of the lives below.

Crystal chandeliers reflected the city lights in their elegant teardrops. A grand piano sat on a platform on one side of the room, waiting to be played. The tables were covered in white linens. The bar was fully stocked. A couple of the men helped themselves, then poured everyone else a drink. To the naked eye, it looked like any other social gathering.

I stood with my hands in my pockets and my back to the room, looking out through one of the windows. “There are sixty-six of us left.” The chatter went silent as I turned to face the room. I nodded my head toward the table where Chandler, Lincoln, and Caspian sat. “The Tribunal you see before you was forged in a one-hundred-year-old bloodline. We don’t give a fuck about hurt feelings and membership cards. This is not a democracy.” A few scoffs bounced around the room. I ignored them.

“We are a Brotherhood of leaders with one agenda—control.” I walked into the sea of tables, weaving through them as I spoke. My gaze was met with a combination of fear, respect, and disdain as I scanned their faces.

“We work tirelessly together to keep that control and maintain unity at any cost. As a reward, we sometimes indulge in activities that the rest of the world may not accept or understand. Those activities are for our enjoyment. Not as an open invitation for abuse.” I found Winston and cut him a glare. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, flexing his jaw.

“We are not sex traffickers, child molesters, or rapists.” I made eye contact with every single man in this room. I wanted them all to know I didn’t bow down to anyone. My eyes locked with Judge McIntyre—supreme court justice who sold classified information to Russia. Then Gregory Byrne—CEO of a popular subscription-based network who liked to snort cocaine off hookers’ tits when his wife was out of town. And Timothy Lark—world-famous Christian evangelist who fucked his caddies in the clubhouse bathroom. Every man in this room had secrets, and I knew them all.

Sure, there was power in knowledge. But fear only came when you let them know you had the balls to use it.

I made my way back to the window. “Is that understood?” Silence. “I said, is that understood?”

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