Chapter 7: (Dontrell’s POV). The meeting, part 1.

"Hours of talk, and the loverboy here still thinks peace will save us," Clayton growled, his eyes cold. He sat opposite me, alongside my father, his demeanour as sharp as a blade, and the way his eyes settled on me made it clear who the insult was aimed at.

"For every action, there’s an explanation. If the Regent infiltrated our warehouse, there must be a reason—perhaps he was threatened." I responded, leaning forward with a calm that I didn’t entirely feel.

Clayton scoffed, his gaze deadly. “Or perhaps he wanted to use it to expand his arms trade and build his empire! The Circle wants us weak so they can name a new Godfather. If we don’t act, we lose everything.” His words hung heavy, and I couldn’t ignore the way his fists clenched with restrained fury.

I glanced at my father, who sat still, his expression unreadable. He was always silent in moments like these—the calm before the storm. I knew better than to underestimate him. My father, the Godfather of Los Angeles, always had ruthless plans brewing.

I glanced at Andrew, who had been unusually quiet beside me. “Back me up here, man. A query to the Circle could buy us time to figure out what’s going on. Starting a war over this is reckless. A war about the Regent’s theft means war with the Graves: his gang.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Have you turned into a coward?" Clayton barked, his fist slamming onto the leather seat. “They burnt our cargo, shot Elias, and tried to rob us blind! And your brilliant plan is to send a letter? Pathetic. Maybe you should go back to San Diego and stay out of our business. Your cheap-ass mistress is waiting."

“My wife,” I countered, my tone icy yet calm.”Not that it’s any of your business, but I suggest you focus on strategy instead of petty insults.”

Clayton smirked, his expression dripping with mockery. “She’s just a pawn. Let her play her role, or she’ll expose the soft underbelly you’ve been trying to hide."

“Enough!” My father’s voice cut through the tension like a whip, his cane smashing into the glass table. The table shattered, shards scattering across the floor. “Both of you will stop this nonsense.” His voice was low and dangerous, commanding instant obedience.

Clayton’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Clayton’s right,” my father began, his tone measured yet chilling. “This meeting isn’t for pointless debates. You’re here to support your family—not to question us.” He glanced at me, his eyes cold and calculating. “It seems Andrew didn’t properly brief you on what happened last night."

My brow furrowed as I turned to Andrew. “You didn’t tell me the full story, did you?"

“It’s almost 11 p.m.,” Andrew finally said, his gaze fixed anywhere but on me. “We should leave now if we want to make it on time."

“Late is good; it makes a statement, so cut the crap and speak up. Aside from the cargo and the Regent’s death, what else happened?” I barked, refusing to let him off the hook.

Andrew sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “When Clayton and I arrived, half of the infiltrators were already dead. Our men fought like hell, and we joined in, taking out the rest. But we captured the Regent alive. Before we could get any answers, he bit down on something—cyanide, maybe—and died foaming at the mouth."

The room went silent as I nodded, processing the familiar details.

“When we searched the bodies, we found this.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a photograph. He handed it to me.

My blood ran cold, a knot tightening in my chest. It was Allison. Her face stared back at me, vivid and haunting, like a ghost dragged from my past. My hand trembled slightly as I turned the photo over, revealing a date: 07-07, marked with an ominous ‘X.’ Anger and fear collided within me, threatening to spill over.

“What the fuck does this mean?” I demanded, my voice roaring with rage.

Andrew shook his head. “We don’t know. And with all the attackers dead, there’s no one left to question."

Clayton’s voice broke through my thoughts, his tone mocking yet insistent. “Still want to negotiate peace, Mr. Pacifist?”

I didn’t answer him. My anger wasn’t directed at Clayton—it was at the image in my hand and the cryptic message.

I rose to my feet, my anger simmering dangerously close to the surface. “We leave. Now!"

Clayton smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Thought you said arriving late would make a statement."

I turned to him, my voice low and deadly. “Get up, or I’ll make my own fucking statement—with you."

Andrew stood, adjusting his suit. “I’ll grab Rizler.” His tone was calm, but the slight edge in his voice betrayed his tension. Clayton followed without another word, his movements deliberate. My father still sat, barking orders to the remaining men. As always, he seemed calm, almost amused by the chaos. He thrived on my anger, knowing I worked best when I was furious.

Outside, I cleaned my pistol, waiting by the car. Clayton emerged, grenade and pistol at the ready.

“What?” he said, smirking. “Someone might need their head splattered.” Andrew followed, gripping his weapon of choice—‘Rizler.’ A customised baton laced with wires and tipped with iron spikes. His face was expressionless, but his angry face hinted at his readiness for violence.

Once we were all in position, the convoy roared to life. My father rode in his armoured Bentley, flanked by four cars loaded with armed men, and we rode in ours.

---

We drove for almost an hour from Beverly Park to the dense outskirts of Topanga Canyon. The further we went, the darker and more secluded the roads became. Finally, the path ended at a barricade of boulders and wood, the remnants of an old landslide.

We climbed over the obstacle, our footsteps crunching against the dirt as we ventured deeper into the wilderness. The air chilled, shadows stretching ominously. After a while, the towering silhouette of the abandoned charity home came into view.

Built in the 1960s, the structure was a relic of the Sovereign Circle’s early days. My great-grandfather, Thomas Blade, had constructed it as a sanctuary for orphans—but it had since become a gathering place for Los Angeles’s most powerful mafia families.

The wooden gate creaked as we pushed it open. Inside, the dim glow of lanterns illuminated the faces of men from other factions: the Graves, the Sombras’, and the Blackthorns’. Only the most powerful gangs were invited to emergency meetings like this.

As I entered, I exchanged nods with a few familiar faces, but Clayton and Andrew surged ahead, their expressions hard. My father walked with the quiet authority of a king, flanked by five of our men.

The pulpit loomed at the far end, occupied by twelve councilmen, each marked with an ‘X’ scar. Their red suits and black masks blended with the dim shadows. My father ascended his crimson throne, flanked by six councilmen on either side. A harsh light shone on the pulpit middle, while dim bulbs, just enough to make out faces, cast shadows across the hall.

We took our seats in the second row; the Matarife and the Ravenor, third and fourth in command, sat in the front row, leaving the late Regent's seat empty beside them.

The ‘Raven’—a notorious enforcer and timekeeper—stepped forward and rang the heavy iron bell. Its toll echoed through the hall, signalling the start of the meeting.

And then, silence.

—-

The Raven stepped away from the bell and into the spotlight in the centre of the pulpit, his presence commanding attention.

“The Godfather has called this urgent meeting to address a grave matter—the Regent is dead.” The Raven’s voice carried a cold finality that made the room still at first.

A collective gasp echoed through the room. The men exchanged uneasy glances, the tension palpable. Clayton and Andrew remained silent, their faces unreadable, though I could see Clayton’s foot tapping anxiously. It was clear he was losing patience with the drawn-out introduction. I remained still, my arms crossed. The photograph of Allison still weighed on my mind, her face an omen that refused to let go.

"Silence!" The Raven’s voice thundered, cutting through the whispers, and the room obeyed instantly.

“The council has launched an investigation into the circumstances of the Regent’s death. In due time, we will reveal the truth. For now, anyone with relevant information must step forward.”

Clayton shot to his feet, his voice cutting through the hall like a gunshot. “The Regent is dead, and we’re wasting time! Bring me the Graves Gang’s second-in-command now—or I’ll drag him in myself.”

The iron doors slammed open. The council’s guards hurled a bloodied figure, tossing him to the ground.

“He’s from the Graves,” one of the guards announced.

Clayton walked from our seat to the aisle and knelt by the man, grabbing him by the collar. “Who sent you people?”

The man’s bloodied hand twitched, slipping toward his waistband. Clayton’s eyes narrowed as the battered man reached for his gun—but before anyone could react, a deafening bang echoed through the hall.

Silence followed, broken only by the thud of a body hitting the floor.