“They’ll look to us,” he agrees.
Irina’s smile sharpens. “Exactly. We’ll give them a flag, a name to rally behind. The old borders will mean something again, and this time the leader will be ours. Someone young. Believable. Moldable.”
My pulse spikes. I know who she’s about to say before Rupert even breathes the name.
“Malachi.”
“He’s perfect. He hates his own family enough to play the part, but he trusts me. Once he’s in place, I’ll keepsteering the ship. He won’t even know whose course he’s following.”
My nails dig into my palms. She’s been grooming him. Every mission, every half-truth, it’s been for this.
Rupert tilts his head, studying her. “And the labs?”
She waves dismissively, like the torture chambers under her brothers’ control are nothing. “Let my brothers have their fun. Every atrocity pushes us closer to the breaking point. When the public finally sees it, it’ll be the final spark.”
“You’re gambling with thousands of lives,” Rupert says, but there’s no real protest in it.
“I’m ending decades of destruction. A little more pain now for peace later. The only way to unite them is to give them something to fear, then dangle someone to save them.”
I want to look away, but I can’t.
“And when Malachi realizes the Syndicate was never the hero in the story?” Rupert asks.
Irina leans forward, chin resting lightly on her hand, eyes gleaming. “By then, it won’t matter. The people won’t care who wrote the script. They’ll only remember who gave them the ending.”
Static chews across the feed, but not fast enough to blur the cold satisfaction on both their faces.
“Damien, are you the one showing me this? Who else is involved?” I ask into the air, glancing around the room as that unusual tingle creeps up my spine. The speakers blare again at full volume, making me jump.
The static ripples, breaking the image of Irina’s office into jagged fragments before it clears again.
Rupert is pacing, his long hair hanging forward as he leans on her desk. “I got word that Marco’s planning something big. The summit in the Southern District. He wants to hit it hard,take out as many Syndicate members as possible while they’re all in one place.”
That’s where Irina’s at right now.
What is she planning?
Irina doesn’t even flinch. She leans back in her chair, fingers steepled like this is an interesting puzzle, not a death sentence. “Good. Let him.”
Rupert stops. “Good? Irina, that could kill half our leadership.”
“Then make sure as many non-Syndicate members are there too,” she says, like she’s discussing party seating arrangements. “We’ll keep our real summit somewhere secure—small, private, off-site. The one Marco attacks will be the false summit. A spectacle.”
I grip the edge of the desk, leaning closer to the screens.
Rupert’s brow furrows. “A spectacle?”
“A large party,” she clarifies, standing now, her heels clicking as she circles him like a predator. “We’ll invite every influential family in the districts, especially the ruling families. All of them in one glittering room.” She smiles faintly. “When Marco makes his move, everyone will witness it. We’ll be ready to spin the narrative exactly how we want.”
He shakes his head. “You’re talking about planting our own attack.”
“Of course we are.” Gone is the gentle tone I’m used to. “We’ll blame it all on Marco and Viktor. And while the chaos unfolds, we can remove a few… key people. Quietly. Permanently.”
I can barely breathe. The hum of the servers behind me sounds louder, pressing in like static inside my skull. They’re not simply letting Marco’s attack happen. They’re staging their own, twisting it into a story the world will swallow whole.
Rupert exhales, running a hand over his jaw. “You realize how dangerous this is.”
“That’s the point,” she says, pouring herself a drink like this conversation is already over. “Danger breeds loyalty. Fear breeds obedience. By the time the smoke clears, the districts will be begging for us to take control. We are so close and need to keep up the momentum.”
