Zack
The large room was filled with tons of men, gangs from all over the country. It was an old industrial warehouse on the edge of the city — abandoned to the public, alive in the underworld. The scent of machine oil still clung to the air, mixed with the faint tang of cigar smoke and blood that had long since dried into the floorboards.
Half of them had lit cigarettes in their mouths. I watched them huff and puff out the smoke. The other half of them had glasses in their hands, filled with liquor. Some sipped while some gulped down the contents of their glasses.
They laughed as they drank together, talking about the lastest guns and ammunition. You could see some passing papers around, the contents of the papers were the latest drugs. Everyone in the room had a tie with illegal dealings.
Most of the men didn't like each other, you would know by the scornful looks they gave each other. But, they were all here for one thing, the new mission. The mission I knew absolutely nothing about.
Tch. Why am I even here? I asked myself.
I'd never attended any of these meetings in the past, which was shameful because my older brother had already gotten acquainted with the underworld before he turned 18. I looked around the room and my eyes landed on the high table.
The high table. Where the big men sit.
I let out a sigh. Three chairs were placed behind the table, the big three. The three leaders of the underworld; Martin Manches (my dad), Peter Monsoe and BJ aka the traitor.
These three men were feared by gangs from all over the country, they were a force to be reckoned with. Well, until Peter Monsoe died and things started falling apart.
Absolute silence befell the room as the door groaned open with a long bone-dry creak. My father walked in with Tyler close behind him. The room went still the moment he entered—like the air itself dared not move.
Martin Manches stepped in wearing a midnight-black tailored suit that fit like a second skin. A scar ran across his right cheek, an old reminder of the last man who thought he could touch him. That man had vanished—body, name, legacy—like he never existed.
His eyes were the color of old steel, cold and unreadable. They scanned the room slowly, and wherever they landed, men lowered their gazes or shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Even seasoned killers swallowed hard.
The once rowdy room had become so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Even the clocks seemed to wait for his permission to tick.
He walked up to the high table and when he sat, the meeting didn't begin until he gave the nod. Tyler stood beside him as his right-hand man. I watched my dad place his hands on the table and clear his throat.
"Listen up, you good-for-nothings." He bellowed. "Word has gotten to me that a certain gang is planning to mass murder innocent citizens."
Murmurs filled the room as he completed his statement. Fights between gangs are completely normal but killing innocent citizens is highly prohibited.
"As you all know, civilians cannot be dragged into underworldly fights-" He paused. "A war is coming."
Accusations flew, old grudges rose from the depths, voices climbed over each other like rats scrambling for the last piece of bread. The room was no longer silent.
"Curse that damned Jones." Someone said from the edge of the room.
"Yeah, damn him." A voice agreed.
Father hit the table three times and the room quietened down a bit.
"That's enough. There's nothing we can do about it now." He rubbed his temples. "It's inevitable."
"We have to get rid of the ones behind this and for that, we have to prepare." He stated. "We must reduce the damage to the city as much as we can."
Father stood up again and said;
"Gentlemen," his voice rolled like thunder, calm yet commanding. "I hear things. I always hear things."
The chatter stilled completely. Cigarettes froze halfway to lips. Even the air seemed to pause.
"There are whispers…" He continued, stepping forward slowly, deliberately, "…whispers of betrayal. Of hands shaking with those who wish to see this family fall. Of knives aimed not at our enemies, but at our own backs."
A murmur rippled through the room, then died just as fast under the weight of his stare. He raised a hand, silencing even the smallest breath.
"You know what betrayal costs, don't you? You know what happens when loyalty is traded for thirty pieces of silver. It's not just the man who bleeds—it's his crew, his name, his bloodline. Erased." His last word hit like a hammer.
He let the silence sit, thick and suffocating, his eyes sweeping across every face. Nobody moved. Nobody even dared blink.
Finally, he placed both hands on the table and leaned in, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "So… if you've done business with my enemies… if you've even thought about it… pray I never find out."
"I've already found one gang leader. Don't think I can't find you."
The room stayed frozen, quiet enough to hear the hum of the chandelier above, every man at the table suddenly very aware of the weight of his own heartbeat.
With that, he slouched back into his chair and let out a deep breath.
Suddenly, someone stood up from the centre of the room. He was dressed in a tailored grey suit, though the bulge under his coat told anyone paying attention that he never came unarmed. He lit a cigar slowly, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating his facial features.
"While we're at it, two slots of the big three are empty. We have to fill up the space to bring back balance to the underworld." He puffed his cigar.
"Yeah, yeah" was grumbled from different parts of the room. This was one mutual topic that everyone agreed on.
"Yes, I agree." My father acknowledged. "But that is for another meeting."
He got up from his chair, walked down the door and exited the room. Of course, with Tyler at his back.
The room got rowdy again and admist the noise, you could figure out what everyone was talking about.
Who was going to fill up the two empty seats.
The entire meeting gave me a migraine so I headed home.