The Blackthorn Syndicate

Chapter 10 - Noah

I stared out from the window of my office on the second floor, the dim light casting long shadows that mirrored my thoughts. My eyes, predatory and unyielding, were locked onto the scene below.

There was no logical reason for my fixation.

I was only ever like this with an enemy, when I knew keeping my guard down was going to lead to consequences.

I usually only felt this way with an enemy, knowing that letting my guard down could lead to dire consequences.

But this girl posed no threat. She was an entire foot shorter than me, frail and delicate. I could snap her spine like a twig or break her neck with a flick of my wrist.

She had no reason to warrant any attention from me and yet my eyes stayed fixed on her.

She carried herself with the prim propriety expected of someone of her status. As she walked through the garden, she never took a step too large, never let her attention waver from Willow, who was prattling on about God knows what. The girl's responses were brief, a polite smile here, a nod there, as if she were barely present.

Willow introduced her to the old gardener, leaning in to ask the girl something with visible excitement. The girl's head bobbed in a small nod, prompting Willow to squeal and drag her towards the stables where I kept my horses.

The girl followed with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, contrasting sharply with Willow's unrestrained enthusiasm. If anyone else were watching, they'd never guess the girls were close in age. Willow was uncharacteristically bubbly for the sister of a gangster, while the girl beside her looked as though she had lived a hundred lifetimes.

I knew little about her, and what I did know wasn't much. Basic information, official documents related to her education, that was it.

I had been waiting for an outburst last night, but by this morning I knew it was coming and yet it didn't.

But morning came and she hadn't thrown a tantrum or demanded to see her father, which puzzled me. I'd assumed she'd be a spoiled little princess, accustomed to getting everything she wanted at the snap of her delicate fingers. Her father had coddled her, sending her away from the ravages of war to a life of privilege and comfort, while so many others—myself included—had to claw and fight for every scrap of survival. That alone was reason enough for me to despise her. Privilege sickened me to my core.

She represented everything I loathed about the upper crust of society: sheltered, pampered, oblivious to the harsh realities that people like me had to face daily. While she lounged in safety, shielded from the world's brutality, I had been steeped in it. Every scar on my body was a testament to the struggle, each one a stark contrast to her pristine, unblemished existence.

It wasn't just the wealth or the comfort—it was the ignorance, the obliviousness to the struggles of others. It was the way people like her father, and by extension, people like her, walked through life without ever having to look down into the abyss. They didn't have to see the hungry eyes, the desperate hands, the blood-streaked streets. They could remain blissfully unaware, their world a bubble of safety and ease, while the rest of us fought and bled for every inch.

Yet, when one of the servants told me that she was sitting in the living room, I was surprised. I had expected her to be angry and sulk in her room. Fine, perhaps that was a far-fetched expectation but I had expected her to be somewhat sad, perhaps with puffy eyes and evidence of sorrow over her face.

I had not expected to find her calmly sitting on the small sofa, sipping tea and reading the newspaper as if she had been doing it every day. If I hadn't been there yesterday and heard the argument she had with her father or seen the tears on her face after when she went to retrieve her belongings, I wouldn't have believed it was the same person.

She was unnervingly composed. Her hair was perfectly arranged, each lock falling neatly along her back.

My thoughts are interrupted to the sound of the telephone ringing on my desk. I wait a minute before picking up.

"Speak."

"How is my daughter, Mr.Richardson"

I felt a sense of satisfaction hearing Henry Callahan. I respected the fact his voice didn't quiver. The man who had once thought himself untouchable, now found himself at the mercy of my whims. For a moment, I revelled in that power.

"She is unharmed for now," I replied, my voice betraying none of the amusement that danced behind my eyes. My gaze drifted out the window to where both girls stood, a silent reminder of the leverage I held over her father.

"Can I take her home for tomorrow? It's her first birthday here after six years."

I never thought of Henry as a sentimental man. I might not have found much on his daughter but there were three files worth of information on Henry here.

Information I had consumed and now was settled snugly in the back of my mind.

I knew it was killing him to call me here but the tables had turned. It was just yesterday I had extended a hand out to this man for business and instead of taking it he spat at it. If I didn't have his daughter, this man wouldn't be at my feet.

It was too soon to reward a dog that was barely disciplined.

"No."

My reply was concise as a smirk made its way over my mouth,

"However, I might change my mind if you beg."

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the line as Henry's frustration boiled over, a fitting end to our exchange. And as the call ended, a sense of satisfaction settled over me like a cloak, a reminder that in this world, power was the ultimate currency. I may not have liked Henry Callahan, but I respected him. And now, he would learn to respect me.

Besides, unnerving him wasn't the only reason why I wasn't going to let him see his daughter. I wanted to see what her reaction was going to be when she didn't wake up to a bunch of presents by daddy dearest. She looked like the kind that would have had everything in the world.

I remembered staring at the daisies on her dress from this morning. They were beautifully hand embroidered, clearly someone had put a lot of time and effort only for some rich person to come along and buy it off their backs. People who brought craft this easily never appreciated the efforts of others.

Just like the users of my products. Luxuries they couldn't live without but never appreciated. They consumed without thought, never realising how a small change in measurements could end their pathetic lives.

People like Henry Callahan, people like her, they would never accept that a man like him was equally if not more hardworking than them. Simply because his craft was one of closed doors and private rooms. Of alleys that smelled like piss and whore houses where men couldn't fuck without his product.

The Blackthorn Syndicate might be the leading distributor in London but I was far from being the man on the top.

My eyes trailed back out of the window, watching as the girl walked out of the stable.

Hi guys! Thank you so much for the love you have shown to this story. I love seeing the comments and while I can't get back to all of you, they are my favorite part of each update! Can't wait to see what you guys think of this one.