Chapter Twenty

Rick Hampton

Newton’s Kitchen, Compton Avenue, Watts, Los Angeles…

Rick Hampton slouched in the oversized wingback chair, as was his habit. He was a big man and made no secret of flaunting it to intimidate people. At six-foot-four, with broad shoulders stretching his impeccably tailored suit, he cut an imposing figure. Yet his face, with its gentle brown eyes and serene expression, seemed better suited to a Sunday pulpit than the underground world he commanded. Gray peppered his short-cropped hair against the stark contrast of his black skin that combined with a neatly trimmed beard, lent him an air of distinguished wisdom. Many had been fooled into underestimating the ruthless drug lord of the Phantom Syndicate.

A ghost of a smile played on his full lips as he watched Theo Russo burst through the restaurant’s doors like an angry bull. The youngest Russo son’s face was a mess of bruises and dried blood. Even his expensive clothes were disheveled.

“Ah, and so the clock starts ticking.” Rick’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the intricate crystal tumbler as Theo stormed to the bar.

“Your most expensive whiskey,” Theo snarled at the startled bartender. “The whole fucking bottle.”

Beneath Rick’s placid exterior, a familiar darkness stirred. Here was the key piece he’d been patiently molding—the prodigal son, cast out and now burning for revenge. Everything about Theo’s current state screamed of family betrayal. Rick could practically taste victory. Years of carefully laid plans to dismantle George Lucky Russo’s empire were finally coming to fruition.

Satisfaction coiled in his chest like a serpent as he watched Theo throw back his first drink. The Gragna Mafia and their leader had been his target all along. Theo Russo was merely the first domino that needed to fall. Now that he had manipulated him into helping destroy his own family, Rick would seize control of both organizations, expanding his territory from Watts across all of Los Angeles, and take his revenge. Two birds with one stone.

“Ah, the beginning of victory tastes so good,” he cooed as he took another sip of his favorite bourbon. He maintained his benevolent expression even as visions of vengeance danced behind his eyes.

Sometimes, the most devastating weapons came disguised as wounded souls seeking retribution of their own.

“You seem disturbed, my dear young friend,” Rick intoned as Theo flung himself onto the sofa opposite him, spilling expensive whiskey on the hand-stitched Italian leather. His jaw clenched imperceptibly at the casual display of disrespect.

“They’re not even fucking interested in listening to my proposal. Too caught up in their own power to even consider there are many ways to slaughter a fucking sheep.” Theo’s words slurred slightly as his bruised face twisted in a sneer.

“I always find that patience is the key when dealing with a stubborn family.” Rick’s measured tone belied the growing tension in his massive frame. He’d spent years cultivating his reputation, ensuring even the most hardened criminals treated him with deference. Yet here sat this entitled brat, treating his sanctuary like a common dive bar.

“My family is beyond that. There’s no one who tells Lucky or Tag Russo what to do.” Theo chucked down his drink and commenced to fill the glass again, liquid sloshing over the rim. “Now, they’ve done exactly what we suspected they’d do. Use my lawyer sister and her contacts to get them off the hook with The World Bank and the FBI. All that fucking work for nothing.” His lips curled in derision. “I had set my heart on them failing so I could take over, but my bitch of a sister, who until now had no interest in the family, is suddenly pitching up at the house all the time.”

“You’re babbling, Theo.” Rick straightened. He didn’t like what he was hearing. His benevolent mask slipped as cold dread settled in his stomach. Years of meticulous planning, calling in countless favors, and millions of dollars spent buying the right people were potentially all coming undone. He hadn’t factored in this variable—hadn’t considered that the Russos might find a way to prove the setup. “What power does your sister have, exactly?”

“My father got her to rope in Dexter Flint, a VP of The World Bank. His opinion and ability to spot deceit are world-renowned.”

“If he’s involved, our entire plan is fucked, Theo.” The name hit Rick like a physical blow. Dexter Flint was a financial bloodhound whose reputation made even the most powerful crime families tread carefully. Every carefully constructed paper trail, every fabricated transaction Rick had orchestrated to frame the Russos would now be under that ruthless scrutiny.

“Isn’t that exactly what the fuck I just said?” Theo snapped as he carelessly flicked ash from his cigarette onto the pristine floor.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Rick’s massive frame tensed, and his gentle facade evaporated like morning mist. The man who emerged was all predator and the true face of the Phantom Syndicate’s ruler. It was time the little shit learned who held the power in their very tenuous relationship.

“I don’t appreciate your tone, young man,” he sneered with aggression visible in every line of his body. At the moment, no one would confuse this man with an angel. “You seem to forget who you are addressing.”

Theo glared at him, too drunk and self-centered to recognize the danger. “Don’t you fucking start on me, too. I’ve had it up to here with over-the-top fucktards pushing their positions in my face.”

Rick’s fingers tightened around the tumbler as he calculated how many ways he could end this insolent pup’s life without staining the carpet. But he needed Theo alive—for now. The game had changed, but perhaps this piece on the board could still be useful… if properly handled.

Rick leaned forward. His movement was deliberately slow and controlled.

“My boy,” he said as his voice dropped to a velvet-soft rumble that had made countless men reconsider their choices. “You’re special. I saw that potential in you from the start. That’s why I chose you as my partner in this venture.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “But don’t mistake my appreciation for weakness. Power,”—he smiled, showing perfect white teeth —“real power comes to those who know when to roar and when to purr.”

Theo straightened slightly, his chest puffing out at the praise even as wariness flickered in his eyes. Rick watched the transformation with calculated satisfaction. Like a puppet on strings, the youngest Russo son was pathetically easy to manipulate.

“You’re right about your family being blind to innovation,” Rick continued smoothly. “They can’t see that you’re the future. But I do. I see the empire you could build.” He took a measured sip of his drink. “However, your sister’s interference threatens everything we’ve worked for.”

Theo’s face darkened at the mention of Violet. Rick pressed on, his tone hardening ever so slightly.

“She needs to understand that her meddling has consequences. Make sure she receives that message, Theo. Clearly and convincingly.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “Because if she doesn’t step back, well... warn her that even someone as prominent as Dexter Flint isn’t untouchable.”

Shock flashed across Theo’s battered face. “You want me to—” he started, then fell silent as Rick’s words about power and empire echoed in his whiskey-addled brain.

“I want you to secure your future, whether you do it yourself or find someone to do it for you. I don’t give a shit either way,” Rick purred. “Think about it. Once the dust settles, you’ll have everything you deserve. The respect, the power, and the authority to make decisions without big brother Tag’s permission.” He leaned back, spreading his massive arms along the chair. “All that stands in your way is one stubborn sister who never cared about family business until now.”

Theo’s expression shifted from uncertainty to resolution as ambition overwhelmed whatever remnants of fraternal affection might have lingered.

“You’re right,” he said and downed the rest of his whiskey. “I’ll take care of it. She won’t be a problem anymore.”

Rick smiled benignly, once again the picture of a gentle giant. Inside, though, his mind was already calculating contingencies. If Theo failed, well... there were other ways to deal with troublesome lawyers and nosy bankers. Either way, the Russo empire would fall.

Rick watched Theo stumble toward the exit. His unsteady gait was a visual sign of both the whiskey’s influence and his inflated sense of importance. The moment the door closed behind him, Rick’s magnanimous mask dissolved completely and was replaced by cold calculation.

“Scrooge,” he called softly, not bothering to turn around.

A figure materialized from the shadows like a nightmare given form. The bulky man’s face was a road map of violence, with a jagged scar splitting his left cheek from ear to mouth, while burn marks created a mottled pattern across his right temple. Viktor Scrooge Kozlov’s dead gray eyes fixed on Rick with canine devotion.

“Keep an eye on our young friend,” Rick instructed as he watched the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “Make sure he delivers our message to his sister. If his resolve wavers…” He paused, letting the implications hang in the air. “Help him find the proper motivation.”

Scrooge’s weathered face split into a grotesque smile, revealing several missing teeth. Violence was his art form, and few appreciated the opportunity to practice their craft as much as he did.

“With pleasure, Boss,” he rasped in a voice that sounded like gravel over broken glass. “How... creative would you like me to be?”

Rick’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes grew distant, seeing not the luxury of his present surroundings but a decades-old memory his mother kept retelling, of his father being shot by cops while he was sleeping. All because Old Man Russo had put the theory in the head of J. Edgar Hoover that he was a threat of an emerging messiah who could electrify a militant black nationalist movement. Tiber Russo had taken pleasure in destroying anyone who threatened his territory, even a man whose only aim was to build a better world for his people. He was the one who had paid those cops to make sure Fred Hampton didn’t survive the raid.

“Creative enough to send a message to his sister,” Rick said finally. “But nothing permanent. Yet.” He set down his glass with deliberate care. “Let the little shit think he’s still in control. If he fails to handle his sister properly…” His massive shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. “Then you can truly express yourself.”

Scrooge’s smile widened impossibly further as anticipation gleamed in his dead eyes. He melted back into the shadows, leaving Rick alone with his thoughts and his vendetta.

“You should have had them kill my pregnant mother that day, too, old man,” Rick murmured to the empty room. “Because I’ve spent my entire life planning how to destroy the legacy you’ve built.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Starting with your precious grandchildren.”

The bourbon caught the light like blood as he drained the glass. He felt no remorse for using Theo against his own sister. Family loyalty meant nothing to him—the Russos had taught him that lesson well enough.

“Now, the time has come for Old Man Russo’s next generation to learn it, too.”