Chapter 3 - The Council of Wolves
The war room on the top floor of the Halcyon Bay administrative wing was designed for men who traded in cargo ships, port monopolies, and calculated violence. A massive mahogany table sat beneath a wrought-iron chandelier, surrounded by twelve high-backed leather chairs.
Only three men sat at the table now.
Santino Greco occupied the head seat, his dark suit jacket discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and old scars. To his right sat Rocco Vale, his heavy frame tense, his hand never straying far from the weapon holstered beneath his arm.
And strapped to a reinforced steel chair in the center of the room sat Bastian Carelli.
Bastian’s expensive navy suit was rumpled, a thin line of blood trickling from his lip where Rocco had introduced him to the drywall outside the medical suite. Despite his predicament, Bastian had managed to recover a shred of his corporate composure, though his breathing was shallow and erratic.
“This is insane, Santino,” Bastian spat, straining against the heavy plastic zip-ties binding his wrists behind the chair. “You’re torturing your own operations director based on a note written by a hysterical secretary and some paranoid delusions about a poisoned glass!”
Santino did not look at him. He was methodically cleaning a silver-plated lighter with a cotton cloth, the metallic click echoing rhythmically through the vast room.
“Hysterical,” Santino murmured, his eyes fixed on the lighter. “That was the word you used when she flagged the discrepancies in the Colombian import manifests six months ago. You told me she was overworking herself. You told me women in high-pressure administrative roles often experience emotional fatigue.”
Bastian’s eyes darted toward Rocco. “Rocco, you know me. We’ve built this network together over twelve years. Are you going to let him execute me over a woman who barely knew how to fire a gun?”
Rocco leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table. His voice was a low, rumbling growl. “Bastian, the only reason you aren't bleeding out on the same beach we found Ara on is because the boss wants you to explain why your personal access code was used to wipe the security servers in the west wing last night at eleven-fifteen.”
The color drained entirely from Bastian’s face. The corporate veneer cracked, revealing the desperate, cornered rat beneath.
“It was a precaution,” Bastian stammered, his voice rising in pitch. “There were sensitive financial documents—tax structures involving our offshore accounts—that I didn't want compromised if the federal task force got wind of the gala shooting! You know the feds have been sniffing around our shipping logs for months!”
Santino stopped cleaning the lighter.
He lifted his head. His eyes were completely devoid of light.
“My shipping logs,” Santino said softly. “Which you managed. Which you shared access with Roman Vance before we put him away. And which you conveniently needed to wipe at the exact moment an assassin walked through the west corridor to poison my champagne.”
Bastian swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. “I didn't know about the poison, Santino. I swear to God. I wanted you out of the way—yes! I’ll admit it!”
The confession dropped into the room like a physical blow.
Rocco’s hand tightened on his grip.
“You wanted me out of the way,” Santino repeated, his voice dangerously calm. “Why? Because I refused to partner with the Brighton Beach syndicates on the human trafficking expansion?”
“Because you’re getting soft!” Bastian screamed, desperation finally breaking his restraint. “You’re tying up millions in legitimate real estate, luxury resorts, and philanthropic foundations! You’re spending half your time playing suburban guardian to a little girl and worrying about whether your secretary is happy! The syndicate was built on blood, steel, and absolute dominance, Santino! With you gone—and with the Brighton Beach capital backing my new directorate—we could have owned the entire eastern seaboard from Miami to New York!”
Santino stood up slowly.
He was not tall, but when he moved, he carried the terrifying gravity of a man who owned the ground he walked on. He walked around the table until he stood directly in front of Bastian.
“You thought I was soft,” Santino whispered.
“Look at you,” Bastian spat, bleeding from his lip. “You nearly drank the glass. If that woman hadn't broken it, you’d be fertilizer in the Everglades right now. You owe your life to a secretary you spent five years treating like dirt.”
Santino’s hand moved with blinding speed.
He didn't use a gun. He gripped Bastian by the throat with one hand, lifting him slightly off the steel chair until Bastian’s feet dangled and his face turned a bruised, ugly purple.
“I do owe her my life,” Santino said, his voice dropping into a register so cold it felt like winter on the Gulf. “And because I owe her my life, you are going to tell me every single name, every account number, and every connection tied to the Brighton Beach syndicate before I decide whether to feed you to the sharks or let Rocco handle you.”
Bastian clawed at Santino’s wrist, choking, his eyes bulging as air failed to reach his lungs.
Before Santino could apply the final pressure, the heavy oak doors of the war room banged open.
Dr. Alan Vance stood in the doorway, breathless, his white coat stained with antiseptic, a tablet clutched tightly in his hand.
“Mr. Greco!” the doctor shouted.
Santino released his grip. Bastian slumped back into the chair, gasping and coughing violently, dragging ragged lungfuls of air into his chest.
Santino didn't look at Bastian. He turned sharply toward the doctor.
“Speak.”
“Her heart stopped two minutes ago,” Dr. Vance panted, sweat beading on his forehead. “We managed to restart it with the defibrillator, but the plasma filtration isn't working fast enough. The neurotoxin has crossed the blood-brain barrier. If she doesn't receive a specific counter-serum within the hour, she’s going to slip into irreversible cerebral hypoxia.”
Santino stared at the doctor.
The room around him—the war room, the council of wolves, the betrayal of Bastian Carelli, the vast criminal empire he had spent two decades building—suddenly vanished into absolute nothingness.
There was only one thing left in the world that mattered.
“Where do I get the serum?” Santino asked.
“It’s a restricted medical compound,” Dr. Vance said nervously. “Only held in secure federal stockpiles or high-level research labs—specifically, the private biomedical facility run by the Morelli family syndicate up in New York. But getting clearance from them—or getting a courier down here in under an hour—is impossible.”
Santino didn't hesitate for a single second.
He turned to Rocco, pointing a finger like a loaded gun.
“Get the Gulf Coast jet prepped on the private airstrip. Contact Enzo Morelli directly. Tell him Santino Greco is calling in a blood debt, and I want that serum waiting on the tarmac in New York within thirty minutes, or I burn every dock from here to Manhattan.”
Rocco didn't blink. “On it, boss.”
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Santino looked back down at Bastian, who was still wheezing in the chair.
“Lock him in the lower vault,” Santino ordered coldly, walking past them toward the door. “When I get back from saving her life, we’re going to have a very long conversation about who else in this syndicate thinks I’m soft.”
