The Blood Red Wine

The air in the estate’s penthouse dining room was thick enough to choke on. It was a cloying, suffocating mixture of imported Cuban cigar smoke, rich roasted lamb, and the sharp, underlying tension of a criminal empire on edge. Jaxson sat near the lower end of the massive mahogany table, keeping his eyes carefully trained on his half-eaten meal. As a low-level enforcer who had only been with the syndicate for six months, blending into the ornate wallpaper was a matter of survival.

He was deep undercover, walking a razor-thin line that frayed more every day. Every time he stepped into this opulent, gilded cage, his chest tightened with the terrifying thought of his younger sister, Maya. She was a civilian, entirely unaware of the darkness her brother waded through to keep the city safe for her. If he slipped, if his mask cracked for even a fraction of a second, Maya would be the first target the syndicate used to break him.

"Look at this pathetic stray."

The voice cut through the low murmur of the dining room like a serrated blade. Jaxson didn’t have to look up to know who it belonged to.

Dante, the ruthless heir to the criminal family, sauntered down the length of the table. He wore a perfectly tailored suit that cost more than Jaxson made in a year, and a smirk that had broken a hundred lesser men. Dante was the undisputed bully of the organization, a volatile prince who ruled through psychological torment and sudden, brutal violence. From the moment Jaxson had joined the ranks, Dante had singled him out, making him the prime target for his relentless cruelty.

Dante stopped right behind Jaxson’s chair. Jaxson forced his breathing to remain steady, refusing to take the bait.

"Not hungry, rookie?" Dante taunted, his hand coming to rest heavily on Jaxson’s shoulder. The grip was tight, the knuckles digging painfully into Jaxson's collarbone. "Or are the meals here just a little too rich for a gutter rat?"

Jaxson clenched his jaw, staring at the porcelain plate. "The food is fine, Dante."

"Fine?" Dante scoffed loudly, drawing the attention of the upper-tier lieutenants and, most dangerously, the patriarch sitting at the head of the table. "My father provides a feast, and the stray calls it *fine*."

Before Jaxson could brace himself, Dante’s hand snapped out. He grabbed a full crystal goblet of vintage red wine and tipped it directly over Jaxson. The dark, blood-red liquid splashed against the side of Jaxson’s face, soaking into his white dress shirt and dripping coldly down his chest.

A cruel chorus of chuckles rippled down the table. Jaxson’s fists clenched under the table, his knuckles turning white. His combat instincts screamed at him to stand up, to drive his elbow into Dante’s throat and end the torment right there. *Think of Maya,* he commanded himself. *Swallow it. Be nobody.*

Jaxson reached for a linen napkin and slowly wiped the wine from his cheek. "My apologies," he murmured evenly. "I'm clumsy."

Dante sneered, stepping back. "You've got a stain on you. It's pathetic."

At the head of the table, the patriarch raised a heavy, ringed hand. The room fell into an immediate, terrified silence. The old man’s eyes, cold and dead as river stones, swept over the men.

"We have bigger problems than spilled wine," the patriarch announced, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to shake the crystal chandeliers. "My contacts in the precinct confirmed it an hour ago. We have a rat in the ranks. A federal operative feeding our shipment routes to the feds."

Jaxson’s heart slammed against his ribs. His blood ran ice cold. They knew.

The patriarch’s gaze settled heavily on Jaxson’s wine-soaked shirt. "And we are going to bleed them out tonight."

Dante stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic light. "Let me handle this, Pop. The new blood has been acting skittish all week." Dante grabbed Jaxson by the back of his collar, hauling him violently out of his chair. "I’ll take him to the basement. I'll get you a name before the dessert is served."

Jaxson didn't resist. He couldn't. As Dante shoved him roughly toward the dining room doors, Jaxson’s mind raced with a cold, hollow despair. It was over. His cover was blown. He was a dead man, and his only remaining prayer was that the Bureau would reach Maya before the syndicate did.