HARLEM - THE IMPERIUM CLUB
The accusation hung in the air like a blade.
"Was it forty-seven? Or was it fifty-three?"
Danielle de Mello's smile vanished.
For three seconds, silence filled the Imperium Suite—heavy, suffocating silence that pressed against eardrums and made breathing difficult.
Then Danielle's face hardened.
"You calling me a thief, Lonnie?" His voice dropped an octave. No more warmth. Just cold steel. "You come into my house, sit at my table, and accuse me of stealing from you?"
He stood slowly. Deliberately. Six enforcers shifted positions around the room—hands drifting toward concealed weapons, professional spacing tightening.
"Three years," Danielle continued, voice rising. "Three fucking years I've built East Harlem for you. Taken the risks. Handled the heat. And this is the respect I get? Some bullshit number you pulled out of your ass?"
Tombstone didn't move. Didn't blink.
Just stared with those obsidian eyes.
Danielle's hands spread wide—wounded, indignant. "You want to audit my books? Fine. We'll audit. You want to count every dollar personally? We'll count. But don't you dare walk in here throwing accusations like I'm some two-bit corner boy."
His finger jabbed toward Tombstone. "I've earned better than this."
Silence.
Tombstone's chest rose. Fell.
Then he sighed.
Deep. Disappointed. Like a teacher watching a promising student fail an easy test.
"I expected better," Tombstone said quietly.
The words hit harder than any shout.
Danielle's aggressive posture wavered. Just for a second. Something in Tombstone's tone—resignation, maybe pity—cut through the bluster.
"Lonnie—"
Tombstone stood. Slowly. Three hundred fifty pounds of alabaster muscle rising with deliberate menace.
He didn't move toward Danielle.
He moved toward the door.
Blocked it. Arms crossed.
Danielle's confusion spiked. "What are you—"
The lights flickered.
Just once. Brief. Like a power surge rippling through the building.
Danielle's eyes darted upward—old instinct, checking for threats from unexpected angles.
When his gaze lowered, the unremarkable man was moving.
The bodyguard who'd entered with Tombstone.
He stood from his position near the wall.
Walked forward. Leisurely unhurried like he own the damn place.
Each step deliberate.
Crossed the room and sat in the chair opposite Danielle.
Tombstone's chair.
The power position.
Tombstone didn't object.
Just... stepped aside.
Every instinct Danielle had—three decades of reading rooms, reading threats, reading power—screamed warning.
The man smiled politely almost friendly.
"Mr. de Mello," he said. Voice calm, measured. "We need to discuss your future."
Danielle's mouth opened to respond—
The air changed.
Pressure dropped. Like standing on train tracks and feeling the vibration before the locomotive appears.
And something else.
Something primal.
Bloodlust.
Not the petty violence of street thugs or the calculated cruelty of killers.
This was ancient. Fundamental. The kind of killing intent that existed before language, before civilization, before humanity learned to hide its teeth.
It radiated from the man like heat from asphalt in August.
Danielle's hindbrain—the animal part that had kept his ancestors alive in the dark—suddenly screamed one word:
RUN.
His hand moved on pure instinct.
Reached for the Glock in his shoulder holster. Fingers closing on the grip. Muscle memory from a hundred draws.
The man moved.
One second: sitting across the table, polite smile intact.
Next second: hand locked on Danielle's throat, lifting him bodily from his chair.
Danielle's gun cleared his holster—
Too late.
The world blurred.
His back slammed into the floor-to-ceiling window hard enough to spiderweb the reinforced glass. Pain exploded up his spine. The skyline of Harlem tilted sickeningly beyond the cracked glass—sixty feet of empty air between him and the street.
Iron fingers squeezed his windpipe.
Danielle gasped. Clawed at the grip. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
The Glock clattered from his grip.
His brain struggled to process what had just happened.
Sitting. Then here. Against glass. Choking.
When—how—
The pressure at his throat made speech impossible.
His eyes darted desperately to his men—six enforcers, professionals, all armed, all—
Standing motionless.
Staring at nothing.
Eyes glazed. Breathing shallow. Bodies rigid. Not moving.
Like puppets with cut strings.
What the fuck—
"You've been skimming."
The voice came from inches away. Calm. And clinical.
Danielle tried to speak. Managed only a wet choking sound.
The grip loosened. Just enough.
Air rushed in. Sweet. Burning.
"I—" Danielle gasped. "—Lonnie—I can—"
"Six thousand weekly," the man continued. Ignoring him. "Twenty-four thousand total. Possibly more." His face was centimeters away now. Close enough that Danielle could see his eyes clearly for the first time.
They weren't human.
Not in the literal sense—they were eyes, regular anatomy, normal structure.
But the thing behind them wasn't human at all.
Like staring into deep water and realizing something enormous was staring back.
"Antoine Garcia at Sal's Diner. Forty-seven minutes. Tyrell Jackson at Crown Barbershop. Thirty-two minutes." The man's voice never rose. Never wavered. "Three burner phones purchased on Lenox. Activated same day. You've been recruiting."
Danielle's mind reeled.
How—surveillance? Informant? Psychic?
None of his crew would—couldn't—
"You think Tombstone's weak," the man said. "You think bending the knee made him vulnerable. Made him... manageable."
His grip tightened.
"You were wrong."
Danielle's hand moved. Instinct overriding terror.
Backup piece. Ankle holster. If he could just—
Pain.
Sudden. Absolute. Exploding up his left arm.
Danielle looked down.
A spike of hardened wood—impossible, where did it—protruded through his wrist. Six inches of sharpened timber pinning his hand to his own thigh.
Blood.
He screamed.
The sound echoed off marble and glass. Raw. Animalistic. Every facade stripped away.
The grip on his throat tightened. Cutting off the scream mid-note.
"I'm going to give you a choice," the man said.
His eyes held Danielle's. Unblinking.
"Option one: you tell me everything. Every conversation with Antonio. Every deal with Tyrell. Every dollar you skimmed. Every lie you told."
Pause.
"Option two: I let you keep your secrets."
Hope flared—
"And I bury you with them."
The wooden spike twisted.
Danielle's scream came out as gurgle. Tears streamed. Snot ran. Every practiced charm, every manipulation, every angle—
Gone.
Reduced to base terror.
"I'll talk!" The words exploded. "I'll talk I'll talk Jesus Christ I'll—"
The spike stopped twisting.
Didn't retract. Just... stopped.
"Good," the man said. "Start with Marcus."
***
The next seventeen minutes destroyed Danielle de Mello more thoroughly than any beating ever could.
He talked.
Names. Dates. Amounts. Locations. Every corner skimmed. Every lie told. Every meeting where he'd discussed "contingency plans" if Lincoln's new boss turned out to be real.
Every. Single. Detail.
The man listened. Didn't interrupt. Didn't react.
Just absorbed it with clinical detachment.
When Danielle finally ran dry—voice hoarse, wrist throbbing, spirit shattered—the man released him.
Danielle collapsed against the window. Caught himself on shaking hands.
The wooden spike remained. Jutting obscenely from flesh.
"You exploited Tombstone," the man said. Standing now. Looking down. "Thought his arrangement made him weak."
He crouched. Eye level.
"You were wrong."
Danielle's mouth worked. Trying to find words. Trying to find the angle that had gotten him out of every tight spot for thirty-six years.
Nothing came.
"I'll work for you," he whispered. Broken. "Whatever you want. Territory, money, contacts—I can deliver Marcus, Tyrell, both of them—"
"You will work for me," the man agreed. "But not how you think."
He stood. Walked to the window. Looked out at Harlem spread below.
"Your territory is gone. Your authority is gone. Your reputation will be rebuilt. As an example."
Danielle's breath came faster. "Example of what?"
"What happens when you test me."
The man formed hand seals.
Danielle had seen movies—ninja shit, martial arts—but the reality was different.
The air rippled. Pressure built. Something wrong pressed against his skull.
"Wait—"
The world inverted.
***
Darkness.
Not the darkness of closed eyes or moonless nights.
The darkness of underground.
Danielle was buried.
Tried to move—couldn't. Tried to breathe—dirt filled his mouth, nose, lungs. Tried to scream—
Dirt. Just dirt. Pressing down. Pressing in.
He was trapped in his own grave.
Faces emerged from the soil.
Miguel. The first man he'd ever killed. Beaten to death over a territory dispute twelve years ago. Eyes accusing.
Teresa. The prostitute he'd strangled when she threatened to go to the police. Hands reaching.
The girl he'd sold to traffickers when she couldn't pay his debt. Mouth open in silent scream.
They pressed closer. Dirt crumbling. Hands grasping. Pulling him deeper.
He tried to fight. Tried to claw his way up. But the soil was endless. Infinite. And the faces kept coming—
Everyone he'd hurt.
Everyone he'd exploited.
Everyone he'd betrayed.
Their hands on his throat. In his mouth. Pulling him down down down—
He couldn't breathe couldn't think couldn't—
The weight of the earth crushed his chest. Ribs cracking. Lungs collapsing.
He was going to die here. Alone.
Forgotten. Buried in the consequences of every sin he'd convinced himself didn't matter.
The darkness swallowed him.
***
Danielle's eyes snapped open.
He was on the floor. Suite. Carpet. Ceiling above.
Not buried. Not dying.
But his mind screamed that he was.
He gasped—great heaving sobs—hands clawing at his throat, his chest, making sure he was real, making sure he was alive—
His fingers came away red. He was covered in blood.
But not his blood.
He turned his head.
Bodies.
Six of them.
His enforcers. His men.
Throats cut. Precise. Professional. The kind of killing that came from experience.
They lay in spreading pools. Eyes open. Staring at nothing.
Dead.
All of them.
Only Danielle remained.
His mind couldn't process it. Couldn't connect the timeline.
The nightmare. The burial. That had been—how long? Seconds? Minutes?
While Danielle screamed in his own head.
A shadow fell across him.
The man stood there calmly. Unmoved. Not a drop of blood on him.
Behind him, Tombstone wiped a blade clean.
"That," the man said quietly, "was mercy."
Danielle couldn't respond. Couldn't do anything but shake and try to remember how to breathe in air that didn't taste like dirt.
"You'll work for Tombstone directly now," the man continued. "No territory. No authority. You collect debts. You inform on your former contacts. You do exactly what you're told."
He crouched. Close.
"And if you ever—ever—think about betraying me again?"
His hand touched Danielle's forehead.
Just long enough to know it was real.
That it could come back.
That it was waiting.
"I'll leave you there," the man whispered. "Forever."
Danielle nodded frantically. Tears streaming. Snot and spit mixing.
"I serve," he croaked. "I serve. Only you."
***
The man stood.
Surveyed the suite. Six corpses. One broken criminal. Blood soaking into imported carpet.
The message was sent.
Word would spread by morning. The shadow boss wasn't legend. Wasn't rumor.
He was real.
And he didn't forgive.
Eventually, someone would try to challenge him. Test the boundaries. See if the stories were exaggerated.
This—de Mello broken, his men dead, the territory absorbed—this was the answer they'd get.
The man had other identities to maintain. A civilian life that required attention. Shadow clones helped—one could handle routine while the original worked, memories integrating seamlessly when the clone dispersed—but even that had limits.
He couldn't be everywhere.
Didn't need to be.
Tombstone would handle operations. Report back. Manage the day-to-day while the architect built higher.
The bodyguard appearance was useful once. Established the face. Delivered the message.
Now it was done.
He turned to Tombstone.
"Clean it up," he said. "I want him functional by Monday."
Tombstone nodded. Something like respect in those obsidian eyes. "Understood, Boss."
The man walked to the door. Opened it.
Stepped through.
Gone.
Tombstone stood in the silence. Looked down at de Mello—broken, sobbing, covered in blood that wasn't his.
Then he moved to the door. Called to someone in the hallway.
"Get him treated. Tell him to report to me tomorrow."
His voice carried the weight of absolute authority.
De Mello would comply.
Marcus and Tyrell would hear the rumors. Understand the warning.
And if they didn't?
Well.
The cycle would continue.
Tombstone closed the door.
Left de Mello alone with six corpses and the memory of being buried alive.
The suite fell silent.
Outside, Harlem glittered. Unaware that its underworld had just shifted.
That a new power had carved its name into the foundation.
Without mercy.
END CHAPTER 14