The Tattooed Emperor: Reborn Before the Apocalypse

Chapter 9: The First Man Who Dies the Day After Tomorrow

Once they were clear of Talon Enterprises, alone in the back of the Maybach, Uncle Frank finally voiced the question that had been sitting on his tongue.

"Young Master, you really think Marchetti's going to hit every one of those deadlines?"

"Of course he will."

Damon's mouth curved into a faint smile. "And even if he can't pull it off himself, the people standing behind him will make sure it happens on time."

"It's all in writing. Signed, legally binding. Men with that kind of backing don't take chances on breach-of-contract lawsuits down the line."

Frank barked out a laugh at that.

"Young Master, you've been sharp since you were in diapers, I swear."

Because here was the beautiful irony of it those scheming idiots thought they were bleeding their own cash reserves dry to buy themselves a golden future.

In reality, the world was ending in a day or two. Every share, every dollar, every carefully cultivated connection they were counting on was about to become worthless overnight.

When the time came, they wouldn't even need to watch their empire collapse in person. Just hearing about it secondhand would probably be enough to send half of them into cardiac arrest.

Damon let Frank's laughter wash over him, a small smile of his own tugging at his mouth.

But underneath that smile, his hatred for the people standing behind Dominic Marchetti had only gotten sharper.

The fact that they'd folded to his three conditions that fast, that easily, told him everything he needed to know. Whoever was really pulling the strings behind Gold Tooth had already locked down total control over the entire Crimson Talon Syndicate.

At minimum, they controlled every resource and every ounce of leverage the family had within the country's borders.

While his parents were still alive, this same group of men wouldn't have dared breathe wrong in their direction.

So what did it mean that barely a week after their deaths, they were already flexing this kind of open control?

It meant this coup hadn't been thrown together on short notice. These ambitious little vultures had been circling and plotting for a long, long time before his parents ever died.

And that raised a darker question in Damon's mind.

What if his parents' murder hadn't started with Augustus Whitlock Preston's grandfather using the Syndicate as a stepping stone to push his son Victor Whitlock into the Lieutenant Governor's office before stepping back himself?

What if it had actually started here? What if these traitors inside his own house had reached out to the Whitlocks first?

Didn't matter which direction the first call went.

He was going to kill every last one of them regardless the traitors within his own walls, and the entire respectable, three-generation Whitlock bloodline right along with them.

And Walter Sutton would be the first name crossed off that list. The day after tomorrow.

Damon had barely been back in his office for two or three hours when his phone started lighting up with transfer confirmations.

Scrolling through the string of zeroes now sitting across several of his accounts, he let out a low, delighted laugh.

"Time to go shopping."

He didn't waste a second dialing Marcus.

"Tiger. Take the money and the crew, and start buying up every scrap of food, meat, produce, and viable seed stock in Ironhaven City. If you empty the city out and there's still cash left, keep going outward until it's gone."

"One rule you don't come back until the account's at zero."

"On it, boss!"

Marcus hung up and turned to the men waiting behind him.

"You all heard that clearly?"

A ragged chorus of agreement answered him.

"Good. No time to waste, then one truck per man. Move out!"

Damon dialed Frank next.

"Uncle Frank, the money's in the account. Push it through on the mineral rights deal immediately. Everything we're building toward starts with those deposits."

"Ha! Those idiots practically handed us a gold mine wrapped in a bow!" Frank's laughter boomed through the phone before his tone sharpened back to business. "Don't you worry about my end, Young Master. I'll pull in more coal and oil leases than you even asked for."

"Good. Stay sharp out there, Uncle Frank."

He hung up, took a sip of tea, and immediately dialed a third number.

"Cal, it's Damon. Is everything we talked about yesterday locked down? Every man under me is going to be counting on gear that technically doesn't exist on the open market yet, come winter."

"Relax, Your Highness. This shipment's the backbone of the entire self-sufficiency plan for the Syndicate's future. You could put a gun to my head and the cargo still wouldn't lose a single screw in transit."

"Cal, you never disappoint."

Call finished, Damon finally allowed himself to sit back and light a cigarette.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling, mind already three steps down the road.

Step one an eight-hundred-and-thirteen-man core team, fully assembled.

Step two resources. Food, materials, and cutting-edge equipment for the doomsday stronghold, nearly locked in.

Step three securing the right base to actually build it on.

Then his eyes snapped open, and he sat straight up out of the recliner.

He'd missed something in step two.

Food, gear, supplies all handled.

But he'd completely overlooked one very human need his men would eventually come calling about.

Women.

Thinking back on the grinding, joyless brutality of his first life, Damon let out a sharp curse.

Life couldn't just be blood and war and survival. A man needed something soft to come home to. A little peace. A little poetry, even, God help him.

Cigarette finished, he was already dialing again.

"Hello is this the agency? Damon Sterling."

"I need pageant queens. Supermodels. Whatever tier of beautiful you've got on your books get me a real selection, and get it fast."

"Your Highness, with respect, that timeline is brutal. Finding women who meet even your baseline standards in two days is next to impossible."

"Then solve for quantity first. Worry about quality after. Money's not the issue and I can also get you the one thing you've been chasing for years."

"Your Highness, are you serious about"

Damon hung up before the sentence finished.

He didn't need to hear the rest. He already knew that last line alone would have the man moving heaven and earth to make it happen.

Call made, Damon finally let himself relax, sinking back into the recliner.

Pop.

He cracked open a bottle of champagne and drank straight from the neck, all pretense of manners forgotten.

Glug. Glug.

A bottle worth more than most people's monthly salary went down easy, and for the first time in what felt like forever, real relaxation settled over his face.

Nearly everything was in place now.

All that was left was to let the clock run out then lead his people to the third step, collecting a little revenge along the way, and wait for the end of the world to officially arrive.