Chapter 5 The Creed Of Power

• “Horace,” Don’s familiar voice drawled, carrying an edge of mock sympathy. “I heard the news. Tragic about your brother. My deepest condolences.”
• Horace smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Save it, Don. We both know you’re not the mourning type.”
• On the other end of the line, Don chuckled. “Fair enough. The work was… clean. Almost too clean. The papers are already singing about a gas explosion. Clever man you are, Horace; very clever.”
• Horace let out a low laugh, one that grew fuller as it echoed in the quiet luxury of the car. “It wasn’t clever. Just necessary. My dear brother—God rest his soul—was weak. And weakness has no place in our world.”
• He took a sip of the scotch, his tone turning cold. “Can you imagine? A man of his caliber, a man controlling the kind of money he did, having just five guards? It was an insult to the syndicate at large. To all of us. To the McDormicks. He was supposed to be strong and powerful and intimidating. He was supposed to live in a mansion, heavily guarded, like me. Well, I warned him. Yeah, I did. I warned him. He said he didn’t see the reason as he had nothing to worry about; he had no enemies.”
• “Really?”
• “Yeah, that’s what he said. Insinuating that I have many enemies. Thus, the reason for my millions of men. Yet, it was my men that do the dirty job for the family. Hear that, for the family. Including him. My brother was no saint, as people thought.” Horace rolled his eyes.
• “No, he wasn’t.”
• “He was just rubbing off on me because I am the one bold enough to walk around with my dirty towel, unbothered.”
• “But more powerful.”
• “Yes,” Horace gave a smug nod. “You cannot be powerful and weak at the same time.”
• “They don’t go together,” Don chipped.
• “No, they don’t. There are young boys in the streets, jobless. Find them. Make them a deal and they will labor for you. The stubborn ones find their weakness and leverage on it, set them up, pin them down, and they will owe you their lives. Power isn’t for the faint-hearted, Don.”
• “Not at all.”
• “You don’t even have to pay them handsomely. Just promise them protection and power, and Boom! You’ve got yourself some knights.”
• “Everyone wants power.”
• “Yeah, but it is not for everyone.”
• “You can’t wield great power if you are weak.”
• “You get it, Don. And what has the lack of strength cost my brother? Gas explosion.”
• Don’s laughter joined his, sharp and knowing. “And now the empire is all yours. Efficient, Horace. Ruthless, but efficient.”
• Horace leaned back against the leather seat, his smile widening as the city lights flickered across his face. “Exactly. In this life, Don, there’s no room for sentiment. Only strength. Power.”
• Both men chuckled.
• “Hardy spoke to me about a new arrival from Canada. You are aware?” Don voiced at the other end.
• “Oh, that idiot who always talked with my brother and never spoke to me. He only sent his condolences earlier today, probably in a bid to build a bridge to transact with me. Condolences not accepted.”
• They both laughed.
• “Don’t worry, buddy. They will come crawling.”
• “I will be waiting for them on my throne,” Horace smirked. “And Donnie, don’t hesitate to reach out if you need my help anytime. I have the best men in Chicago, and Illinois as a whole.”
• “No doubt, my friend. Your power will soon become insurmountable. Enjoy the gala. And remember to avoid Dimitri. Will see you when I return to town.”
• The call with Don ended in laughter. Dark, knowing, the kind that left no trace of mourning. Horace lowered the phone, the smirk on his lips lingering as silence reclaimed the car. Only the soft hum of the engine and the rattle of ice in his glass filled the air.
• He leaned back into the leather seat, staring at his reflection in the tinted window. The city lights flickered across the glass, throwing shadows.
• Integrity.
• That was the word they had used for his brother. The word that had always clawed under Horace’s skin. Other syndicates, rival bosses, foreign partners, they all claimed his brother was the “reliable” one, the man who could be counted on to keep his word. And Horace? He was the sharp edge, the ruthless one, the man they feared but never chose.
• His lip curled in disdain. They forgot whose name was stamped on all of it. McDormick’s. They forgot this was a family business, not his brother’s business. And family doesn’t share power.
• He swirled the last of the scotch, watching the amber liquid catch the passing lights. They went to him because he smiled more easily, because he promised more softly. They mistook weakness for strength. But now he’s ash, and let’s see if they don’t come crawling to me when the money dries up.
• The thought brought a bitter satisfaction. In the end, they would all have no choice but to deal with him. He was the only one left standing, the one who had the stomach to do what needed to be done. And he would make sure they never forgot it.
• His gaze hardened, and another thought surfaced—one that darkened his smile. And as for Nina… that pampered and naïve doll, hidden away like some untouchable jewel. She carries his blood. His aura.
• Horace’s jaw tightened as the car slowed toward the gala’s glowing steps. If that girl thinks her father’s sins died with him, she’s wrong. I’ll use her. I’ll break her if I must. And I’ll make sure I pawn her.
• Horace set down the empty glass, smoothed his cufflinks, and straightened his jacket. Outside, the cameras flashed and the murmurs of guests grew louder, waiting to greet him with false sympathy. The two cars that carried his entourage halted. The guard who sat in the front passenger seat of his Mercedes came down and opened the door for him.
• Horace stepped out of the car, not as a grieving brother, but as a man who had claimed his rightful throne, with fire, with blood, and without regret. Let them whisper about gas explosions, let them call him clever or cruel. Soon enough, the business, the money, and the world would all answer to him.
• His expensive suit cut a sharp line against the night. The air buzzed with murmurs—some respectful, some wary, all carefully masked behind polite smiles. Crystal chandeliers dripped light over the ballroom like liquid gold, casting a polished glow on tuxedos, gowns, and the clinking of champagne flutes.
• The plutocratic gala was a theater of power—wealth gathered in one place, pretending civility while every eye calculated advantage.
• “Mr. McDormick, our deepest condolences,” a woman in a glittering gown said as she curtsied slightly, her voice dripping with sympathy she didn’t mean.