The Tattooed Emperor: Reborn Before the Apocalypse

Chapter 10: Preparations in Progress! Will Sterling's Empire Rise Again?

While Damon relaxed with a bottle of champagne and let his plans take shape in his head, the men he'd sent out were already tearing through their assignments.

At a busy open-air market, shoppers browsed stalls of produce, completely unaware of what was about to hit them.

A wave of low, rolling engine noise rumbled outside and then over a hundred men in dark suits came pouring through the entrance, moving with the kind of coordinated menace that stopped every conversation in the building dead.

The market manager and the handful of security guards on duty went white as sheets.

"Oh, hell what is this, a hit? Are they here to burn the place down?"

"This is insane, right? This can't be legal. Somebody call the police"

"Where are the guards? Hey actually, my stomach's cramping up bad, I need to go make a call from the restroom real quick"

Every guard in the building suddenly discovered urgent business elsewhere.

Marcus ignored the scattering security detail entirely and raised a hand, calling out over the noise.

"Everybody down here, pay full price for everything, no bulk discounts, don't even ask. Speed's the only thing that matters right now move!"

"Copy that, Tiger!"

Thirty minutes later, the market had been stripped bare shelves, coolers, storage rooms, all of it.

Not one of Marcus's men so much as glanced sideways at the terrified staff the whole time. Cash out, goods loaded, next stall, repeat. Clean, practiced, and disturbingly efficient.

They'd clearly done this exact routine more than once.

The trucks rolled out in a long convoy a few minutes later, leaving behind a stunned crowd of vendors clutching fistfuls of cash they hadn't expected to get paid at all let alone above asking price.

The security guards stood frozen, watching nearly a hundred armed men pack up and vanish in perfect formation.

What... just happened?

A gang. Clearly a gang. Showing up in force, buying out an entire market, tipping generously, and leaving without laying a hand on a single soul.

Every stereotype they had about organized crime just took a serious hit.

A few minutes later, the market manager finally worked up the nerve to creep out from wherever he'd been hiding, marching forward like a man walking to his own execution.

"Alright, who exactly do you people think you"

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes going wide as he took in the empty shelves.

"Are you kidding me?! I've seen shakedowns before, I've seen robberies but who the hell pays full price and then cleans the place out like a swarm of locusts?! That's not a crime, that's an act of nature!"

The vendors, already pocketing their cash, just rolled their eyes at him in unison and walked off without a word.

Nobody bothered explaining anything to that particular clown. Not worth the breath.

Similar scenes played out across the city that afternoon.

At a quarry. At a research lab tucked away behind unmarked doors. Even at the Velvet Rose.

"Boss, what the hell is happening are the old guard trying to muscle back into our territory?"

"Hammer, don't just stand there like you're about to lose the building go make yourself useful, fetch these men some tea, water, whatever they need!"

At the research facility, a nervous lab director was practically vibrating with anxiety as he oversaw a very different kind of shipment.

"I have to say, the security detail you brought for this transfer is... genuinely impressive."

"Don't worry about a thing, Director. Every man here's seen real combat overseas. Babysitting your equipment is nothing next to what they've walked through."

And at the Velvet Rose, a madam known to everyone simply as Ruby was walking a nervous new hire through the details.

"Ruby, you're sure this is a good gig? No creepy old men, right?"

"Sweetheart, I promise you every client on this new roster is fit, funded, and knows how to treat a lady right."

"Really, Ruby? You swear?"

"Cross my heart."

At the same time, in a stuffy conference room with terrible ventilation, Dominic Marchetti sat hunched over a video call with several other faces on screen.

"Gold Tooth, condition one's handled, correct?"

"Old Vance, I'm satisfied. Fully satisfied."

All of Dominic's earlier bravado had drained straight out of him, replaced with a fawning, eager-to-please expression.

"Conditions two and three will both be locked down by tomorrow. I've kept a paper trail on every single step and with that signed, fingerprinted contract in hand, kicking the Sterling faction out is basically a formality at this point."

"Ha! Smart of you to leave a paper trail. Didn't think you had it in you."

Two more voices older, gravelly chimed in over the call.

"Honestly, the paper trail's a nice touch, but it barely matters. Once we've got that contract with his fingerprint on it, taking the Syndicate over cleanly is a foregone conclusion given where the real power already sits."

"The Sterling name lost its teeth the second the old man died."

"Mr. Lang's right about that, Mr. Sinclair."

Dominic nodded eagerly. "Originally my plan was to squeeze Frank and his loyalists out the hard way. But have you seen what this kid's actually doing? He gets the wire transfer and the first thing he does is send his men out to strip every grocery store in the city bare."

A slow, mocking grin spread across Dominic's face.

"What's the plan here, exactly is he trying to ship an entire warehouse of groceries in his carry-on when he skips the country?"

"Ha ha ha ha!"

The whole call dissolved into laughter.

Meanwhile, across town.

Inside a lecture hall at Kingsley Prep that had long since stopped hosting actual lectures, bass-heavy music thumped through walls that used to hold whiteboards and desks. The whole room had been gutted and refitted to look more like a nightclub than a classroom.

Under shifting colored lights, girls in barely-there outfits danced through a crowd of hands that didn't seem inclined to stay where they belonged.

On a leather couch in the corner, Preston Whitlock sat with a drink in one hand and a girl draped across his lap, watching the room like he owned it which, functionally, he did.

"Preston, your hands are so warm... I could just fall asleep right here."

She guided his hand further up her waist, not-so-subtly nudging it higher.

Preston caught on immediately and covered her hand with his own, stopping it cold. She let out a small, disappointed sound as he pinned it down and leaned in close.

"You filthy little thing. Where was all this warmth back when Damon Sterling was still around?"

"Please. I was blind back then couldn't see real greatness standing right in front of me. Let me make it up to you tonight."

She gave him a slow, lidded look that left little to interpretation.

Preston opened his mouth to answer when one of his men shouldered through the crowd and leaned in close, murmuring something urgent in his ear.

Preston's expression froze.

"You're certain about this."

"Positive, sir."

Something dark and sharp ignited behind Preston's eyes. He smashed his glass against the nearest table, hauled the girl up off his lap, and stalked toward the exit, dragging her along with him.

"You hear that, sweetheart? Your precious little hero actually had the nerve to come back."

"Not for long. I'll make sure of that personally. You remember I said it Preston Whitlock doesn't miss twice.”