Page 7 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

Our discussion was interrupted by Viktor's text:

Viktor

Vega arriving with six men, not agreed-upon four. Secondary security measures advised.

I exchanged a glance with Harrison, who immediately activated additional security protocols through a discreet panel concealed within his desk. The chess match had begun with Vega's first predictable attempt at advantage.

“Have our leverage package accessible,” I instructed quietly. “And ensure Dominic remains visible during the meeting. Roberto should be reminded of consequences.”

Harrison's slight smile acknowledged the strategic play. Dominic had personally executed Roberto's cousin during our last territorial dispute, information that would keep Vega cautious despite his numerical advantage.

The conference room we entered minutes later exuded neutral professionalism—a battlefield disguised as corporate territory.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered spectacular London views while bulletproof glass ensured security.

The polished table could seat twenty, though today's meeting required only eight places, strategically arranged to provide my side subtle advantages in sightlines and proximity to exits.

I took my position at the head of the table, adjusting my posture to accommodate my injury without revealing weakness.

Dominic stood at my right shoulder, Viktor at my left, their presence communicating lethal capability beneath respectful silence.

Harrison seated himself beside me, arranging documents with deliberate, unhurried movements.

Roberto Vega entered with practiced confidence five minutes later, his designer suit and slicked-back hair presenting the image of legitimate business.

His entourage spread behind him in formation suggesting protection rather than equality.

The scar bisecting his left eyebrow—my gift from our last physical altercation three years prior—twitched slightly when our eyes met.

“Calloway,” he acknowledged with a nod that attempted to convey equal status rather than the subordinate position his family actually occupied in London's hierarchy.

“Roberto,” I replied, not rising. “You requested urgency. I've accommodated despite the irregular number of associates you've brought.” My gaze swept his men, lingering on two particularly nervous-looking soldiers positioned near the rear. “Though some seem out of place in a business meeting.”

Roberto's mouth tightened as he registered my implicit recognition of the gunmen in his entourage. He took his seat without addressing the observation, his lieutenants arranging themselves with poorly concealed tension.

“Your man, Wilson violated our arrangement,” Roberto opened without preamble, gesturing sharply toward Viktor. “We found him in our territory organising distribution routes. The punishment was justified.”

I allowed the lie to hang in the air, studying the tension in Roberto's shoulders, the slight perspiration at his temple.

The conference room lights caught the expensive watch on his wrist, a recent upgrade suggesting financial success or, more likely, overextension to maintain appearances.

Roberto had always valued perception over substance, a weakness I'd exploited repeatedly.

“Wilson was executed for betraying Calloway interests to Vega operations,” I replied finally, my voice soft enough to force everyone to lean slightly forward to hear clearly—a subtle dominance play.

“You sent two men, one of them your nephew, to kill me last night have further violated our territorial agreement.”

I watched Roberto's expression shift from controlled aggression to genuine surprise. A faction within his family operating without authorisation, then. Interesting. Family discord created exploitable fractures.

“I authorised no hit,” Roberto insisted, his eyes darting to his lieutenants, particularly the older man on his right who shifted uncomfortably under scrutiny. “My nephew sometimes acts... impetuously. ”

“Impetuosity has consequences,” I replied, nodding to Dominic, who placed a small rosewood box on the conference table. The box had been custom-made for such occasions, lined with silk to properly display its gruesome contents.

Roberto hesitated before reaching for it, tension bleeding from his posture as he recognised the signalling of traditional communication methods.

Among our kind, such boxes could contain many messages: a severed finger representing a warning, an ear suggesting surveillance had been detected, a tongue condemning betrayal through words.

His facade of confidence shattered as he opened the box, then physically recoiled—inside rested a severed finger wearing his nephew's distinctive university ring. Fresh enough that blood still seeped into the silk cushioning.

“Michael is still alive,” I explained calmly as Roberto struggled to compose himself.

“He awaits your retrieval at the location Viktor will provide. Consider this restrained response a professional courtesy extended out of respect for our historical relationship. Further violations will receive less measured attention.”

The blood drained from Roberto's face, not from the gore—we had all seen worse—but from the implications.

I had taken his nephew, the challenger to his authority, and converted him from threat to liability in one surgical move.

By returning Michael maimed but alive, I forced Roberto to either execute his own flesh and blood for the unauthorised hit, or demonstrate weakness by allowing the transgression without consequences.

“This matter is concluded,” I continued into the stunned silence.

“Wilson's betrayal balanced against your nephew's unauthorised aggression. The territorial boundaries remain as previously established, with the following adjustment.” I slid a map across the table.

“The Southwark distribution point transfers to Calloway control as compensation for operational disruption.”

Roberto's hand trembled slightly as he inspected the map, recognising the substantial concession demanded. The Southwark point represented fifteen percent of his London distribution network, a crippling loss balanced against his nephew's life.

“Agreed,” he conceded after a moment, years of calculated self-preservation overriding pride. “With the condition that this resolution is final and complete. No further action against my family or organisation regarding these incidents.”

I allowed a thin smile. “Provided similar restraint is observed by all members of your organisation moving forward.”

The remaining negotiations proceeded with subdued efficiency, Roberto's earlier aggression replaced by pragmatic damage control.

His lieutenants maintained tense silence, undoubtedly calculating the power shift this encounter represented.

By the meeting's conclusion, the Vegas had ceded valuable territory and demonstrated weakness, while the Calloways had reinforced dominance without triggering all-out war. A satisfactory outcome by any measure.

As Roberto rose to leave, I remained seated, a final subtle reinforcement of our respective positions.

“Family loyalty is admirable,” I offered as parting observation.

“But control must precede loyalty to be effective.

Otherwise, one finds oneself cleaning up the consequences of others' poor decisions.”

Roberto paused, something like grudging respect flickering in his eyes. “Some lessons must be learned personally to be properly understood. My nephew will remember this one.”

“If you permit him to,” I replied, the underlying question hanging between us. Would Roberto eliminate the internal threat, or preserve family at the cost of perceived strength?

After their departure, Harrison turned to me with raised eyebrows. “Surgical. Though holding his nephew creates operational vulnerabilities until retrieval.”

“Already handled,” I assured him, rising carefully to avoid aggravating my injury. “Viktor managed extraction and containment personally. The nephew is sedated at the Docklands warehouse with minimal surveillance exposure. The exchange will occur tonight.”

Harrison nodded, satisfaction evident. “The Southwark concession is substantial. Roberto will struggle to compensate for the lost revenue stream.”

“Which increases the likelihood he'll eliminate his nephew rather than appear weak while financially compromised,” I concluded. “Internal purges will occupy the Vegas for months, giving us time to consolidate our expanded territory.”

“Your grandmother would approve of the elegance,” Harrison observed with a small smile. “Creating circumstances where your enemy eliminates his own future challenger.”

I accepted the compliment with a slight nod, though Harrison's invocation of Sophia triggered familiar suspicion.

My financial director had been my grandmother's first choice to guide the family business after my parents' murder, before my grandfather selected me as heir instead.

That history created perpetual undercurrents beneath our professional relationship.

“Your grandmother has arranged interviews with three potential physicians,” Dominic reported as we left Harrison's building.

The midday sun cast harsh light across London's financial district, gleaming off glass and steel monoliths housing legitimate and shadow enterprises alike.

“The first candidate is scheduled at Ravenswood for seven this evening.”

I scowled, shoulder throbbing as I slid into the Bentley. The morning's tension had aggravated the injury, blood now visibly staining my shirt cuff. “Cancel them. I'll use the Harley Street specialist Montgomery recommends. I don't have time for interviews.”

Dominic wisely chose silence rather than arguing, focusing on navigating midday traffic with practiced skill. His quiet competence allowed me space to process the morning's developments, calculating next moves in the perpetual chess match that was London's criminal ecosystem.

My phone vibrated with updates from various operations—shipments arriving at Dover, legislative changes affecting money movement, property acquisitions proceeding through front companies.

The legitimate and illegitimate faces of the Calloway empire required constant attention, each decision rippling through interconnected networks of influence and control.

Traffic slowed unexpectedly as emergency vehicles converged ahead—a multi-car accident blocking our route to the next meeting.

Blue lights reflected off surrounding buildings, creating a strobing effect that triggered unwelcome memories of flames.

I controlled my breathing carefully, pushing back against the creeping sensations that occasionally ambushed me despite decades of psychological discipline.

I noticed the hospital insignia on responding ambulances: London Royal. Something clicked in my tactical awareness—an opportunity to address my medical situation through institutional leverage rather than individual loyalty.

“London Royal's trauma centre has a new research wing,” I mused, recalling information from recent charity endeavours. “The Calloway Foundation provided significant funding last quarter.”

Dominic nodded, understanding the direction of my thinking. “ Potential leverage for expedited medical services without Montgomery's replacement.”

My phone vibrated again, an urgent message from Viktor interrupting my planning:

Viktor

Wilson's brother spotted entering London Royal. Armed. Security footage confirms identity and weapon.

I stiffened, immediately connecting implications.

Thomas younger brother James had military training and a history of volatile behaviour.

He was seeking revenge, targeting a hospital as a soft entry point into Calloway interests.

The foundation's recent public association with London Royal had created an opportunity for a grieving brother to strike where security would be minimally deployed.

“Change of plans,” I directed Dominic sharply. “London Royal, emergency entrance. Alert security team to converge.” The day's choreographed violence had spilled beyond acceptable containment. Wilson's brother must be neutralised before civilian casualties created unwanted police attention.

Dominic executed an immediate tactical turn, simultaneously activating our security network through his communications device. “Armed response necessary?”

“Containment and extraction only,” I clarified. “No casualties if avoidable. Hospital involvement complicates clean resolution.”

As the Bentley accelerated toward London Royal, I mentally catalogued the irritating variables now in play.

The bullet wound, Vega's nephew, Wilson's vengeful brother, my grandmother's physician interviews—individual manageable issues converging to create unnecessary complexity.

Control required isolation of problems, not their convergence .

Yet something in this chaotic collision of circumstances felt almost predetermined, as though invisible strings were being pulled by hands beyond my perception. The sensation of manipulation triggered deep-rooted paranoia cultivated through decades of survival in a world built on betrayal.

The hospital loomed ahead, its modernist architecture gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Within its walls, a grieving brother sought vengeance for Thomas's execution, unaware that his target was now approaching from behind.

Within those same walls, medical professionals worked to save lives through the same skilled hands that might soon attend my own damaged flesh.

Life and death, healing and harm, existing in such close proximity.

The irony wasn't lost on me as I prepared to enter a place of healing with lethal intent.

My existence had always balanced on that knife-edge between destruction and preservation, between inflicting necessary damage and maintaining crucial order.

As we pulled into the emergency bay, I adjusted my suit jacket to better conceal my weapon. “Stay with the car, engine running,” I instructed Dominic. “This won't take long.”

The automatic doors parted before me, admitting me into the controlled chaos of London's premier trauma centre.

Somewhere within this labyrinth of healing, a man with a gun sought revenge for his brother's death.

Somewhere within these same walls, medical expertise existed that might properly tend my own wounds.

I moved forward with purposeful calm, a predator entering unfamiliar territory with adaptable intent. Whatever outcome awaited, control would be maintained. Order would be preserved.