Page 93 of The Collector

6:50 A.M. Raven- Fine, have them bring her back to the mansion after that. Make sure no one has access to her home, Stoker. When the time comes, get her to my location, wherever that might be. I want her with me at all times.

Raven pocketed his phone before stepping into the hallway. Men swept through the halls in coordinated bursts, radios crackling, boots thudding, orders already being executed in a coordinated effort on the second floor as he passed on the stairwell. The King's network was running, and he was pulling all the strings. He still couldn't believe his father was gone. But he would do what was needed to take the King's as his own.

He moved through the halls, unfazed by the activity. Every nod, every glance, every clipped hello cataloged in his mind.The poison. The killer. The Stallions. The meeting. It was all converging on him, and he could feel the pressure building in him to take action.

Downstairs, the air shifted. The air was thicker, charged with tension and anticipation.

The veranda room was just ahead, its glass walls catching the morning. Raven watched as the underbosses gathered inside.

Some were loyalists, most opportunists. They were men and women who'd killed for his father, who'd kill for him if the odds tilted in his favor. The underbosses would want proof he was capable of being Chapo, not just by his orders, but by the blood he took in retaliation for Hector's death.

They'd swear allegiance with their mouths today, but in truth would measure his worth by his actions. Some would already be plotting to unseat him, and all the while smiling and toasting his new post. But in truth, they were waiting for the moment he slipped, and they could take him out. But none of that was news to Raven. That was how the organization had always been.

What really had his attention was that somewhere in that ruthless crowd—among the enforcers, assassins, killers, and thieves—was a serial killer clever enough to get past his defense, past all of them.

A rat he would soon trap.

Like fate, Raven always got his man. Not because he chased them but because they were already his— from the moment they crossed him. They just hadn't realized it yet.

It was time to flush the bastard out

Raven adjusted his cuffs, squared his shoulders, and stepped in.

Shelby stood near the window, phone in hand, her expression tight. Her fingers moved at lightning speed as she tapped on her phone. Stoker leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes tracking Raven like a hawk from the moment he walked into the room. A few underbosses had already arrived and were seated at the table, murmuring in low tones, their faces unreadable.

Raven poured himself a cup of coffee, black and scalding. He didn't speak.

He needed to watch. To listen. See who leaned into close. Who kept their distance. They would be cautious around him, careful of their words until they knew what the meeting was about. It wouldn't take long for the twelve underbosses to arrive. Most were already in-house after finding out late last night of his father's passing, knowing a meeting today would be inevitable. His Uncles wouldn't be present this morning. Mateo seldom left his home, and Tony was away on King business. And even though his uncles weren't present, he knew they waited in the wings like vultures ready to swoop in on a fresh carcass. To put on a show, appear to be the most loyal, and try to take the Chapo position from him.

A few others filtered in, exchanging murmured greetings, eyes flicking toward Raven, not lingering.

He sipped the coffee, let the heat burn his throat. Let it remind him he was still here, still in control.

Raven sat at the head of the table, and the conversation in the room came to a standstill as they all followed suit. He cleared his throat.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming. I assume you are all aware of the fact that my father passed last night. "He scanned their faces. Looking for grief or indifference or any indication that might suggest the murderer's identity.

There was nothing noticeable. Heads nodded, and all offered murmurs of condolence. He stood. He wasn't ready to reveal the real cause of death just yet. He'd let them think it had been a plot by the Stallions for position. The backlash he'd created with Raul and his men's deaths would turn to violence regardless. And he didn't want his father's killer aware that he knew what happened until he was able to catch them.

"As far as we can tell, my father's death was a coordinated hit—carried out by the Stallions. Last night, those men responsible for the act took their final breaths at mine and Stoker's hands. There's no question whether we'll see blowback, but when. The Stallions don't take losses quietly. And with the long-standing feud between Hector and Raul carved into every wall of this city, they'll be out for blood with their disappearance. Ours."

The room erupted—voices clashing, fists pounding the table, chairs scraping back as people surged to their feet. Cries for vengeance. For blood. For the Stallions to choke on the same death they'd dealt. But through it all, the fury never touched him. Raven stood still, his face with a stern expression, neutral.

And one by one, the outbursts fell away. Until only silence remained.

All eyes were on him.

Waiting—not only for permission to kill, but his orders on how to carry out the task.

Raven cleared his throat before continuing.

"You all know my cousin, Stoker."

Raven's voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"From this moment on, he's my second. Any questions, concerns, or whispers you think I need to hear—send them to him."

He let the words settle.