He closes the box.
The second crate weighs less but shifts differently when he touches it. Whatever lies inside doesn’t sit as one piece. When he opens it, he sees why. Loose sections slide against each other, bone flashing through ruined meat.
His fingers tremble once on the cardboard lip. He presses his palm against his thigh and holds it there until the movement stops. He moves to the third box. He already knows what it contains.
He lifts the lid.
The smell hits harder now. Elliot’s head lies inside. The rot and metal tang roll up into Grant’s face. The cut at the neck shows layered work, some clean, some rough.
This is a message arranged piece by piece.
Grant looks down at his brother’s face and sees every failure layered there. Every time he indulged that arrogance. Every time he let Elliot treat operations like games. Every time he listened to John’s cautious voice saying not yet, not this way, not like that.
He forces himself to hold the stare of what remains.
Eventually he folds the lid back down and stands. The room sways for one heartbeat, then steadies as anger fills the space.
He calls the retrieval unit first, giving the address and a quiet code that guarantees haste and silence. Then he calls the erasure crew, the ones who know how to make a crime scene look like nothing important has ever happened there.
He watches them arrive. He watches them work. They lift each wrapped section and slide them into sealed black bags. When they take the head, one of the men hesitates for half a second before his training wins and his hands keep moving. The skull knocks against the lip of the container with a dull, unmistakable sound.
No one speaks to Grant. No one makes eye contact longer than necessary. They know who pays them and know better than to ask questions about brothers or boxes.
When the last bag leaves the floor and the last crate has been folded flat, Grant’s hands feel too hot and his wrists pound with the pulse he can’t slow. The feeling in his chest doesn’t resemble grief. Grief implies softness. This feels like something hard poured molten and held there until it burns everything it touches.
He steps outside into the cold and shuts the warehouse door behind him. The night air carries exhaust and distant sirens.
He pulls out his phone and dials the number. John picks up before the second ring finishes.
“What?” John's voice comes through flat and bored. “This better be important, Grant.”
Grant stares at the dark warehouse door and tightens his grip on the phone.
“I just collected my brother in pieces. Three boxes on a floor. You want to guess who did that, or do you want me to spell it out for you?”
“I heard Elliot’s party went sideways. I figured he was hiding with whatever was left of his pride. I didn’t realize we had moved into the gift basket phase.”
“Seth did it,” Grant's voice hardens. “Seth and that bitch of a niece of yours that you fed to my brother. They walked out of there breathing because you and the rest of those fucking bastards decided she should be a test case instead of a corpse. You all decided Seth needed a show trial and a public execution instead of a clean shot. You kept them alive for optics. Now my brother is in bags.”
“The Collective made those calls, not just me,” John says. “They wanted Brooke in the manor. They wanted Seth on death row. I followed the vote, just like you did. The one thing that came from me alone was simple. I told you not to let Elliot kill her. I told you he’d fuck up. You ignored that. He played with her anyway. He got what he had coming.”
Grant’s grip tightens on the phone.
“I don’t give a fuck!” Grant snarls. “This is your fucking fault! I want both of them dead and whoever else they’re working with!”
“You’re the one who started this,” John shoots back. “You brought in Kristie and Victor. You vouched for Elliot. Look at your scoreboard now. Kristie is dead. Elliot is dead. You're standing on one leg, and that leg is Victor Voss.”
“Victor is more than enough,” Grant retorts. “His money gives me leverage.”
John gives a low, humorless laugh.
“You stupid son of a bitch. He uses you because you’re his lapdog. When you stop being useful, he will move on. You keep calling him leverage. He calls you a tool.”
Grant looks back at the warehouse, jaw tight.
“I’m done waiting for permission,” Grant growls. “I’m going to find Brooke and Seth. I am going to take her apart slowly. When I’m finished, I will send you both their heads. Then we will see whose stock rises.”
“You sound desperate, Grant.”
