Some time had passed since the violent upheaval at the university, but for Donto Stern, the clock seemed to have stopped the moment Max walked out of that athletic hall. When Donto had finally gathered enough strength to limp out of the facility, he was met with a sight that looked like a battlefield. His operation, the carefully constructed machine of influence and chemical dependency he had built, was in ruins. His enforcers, the elite muscle of the sports department, were scattered across the floor like discarded toys.
The shock had been absolute, a paralyzing cold that settled into his bones. But eventually, that initial numbness passed, replaced by a frantic, desperate need to reclaim his world. He refused to believe that a single person, even a Stern, could dismantle his life in an afternoon.
His first move was a flurry of phone calls to the suppliers who had cut him off. He convinced himself it was a trick, perhaps a coordinated bluff or a momentary lapse in nerve. He tried to reason with them, offering higher percentages and promising that the "Bloodline" threat was exaggerated. When they wouldn’t listen, he moved on to finding new partners. This was a city built on greed; surely, there was someone with enough appetite for risk to ignore a shadow gang.
But as the hours turned into days, the silence on the other end of the line became deafening. No one would take his meetings. No one would even name a price.
"Just tell me what the heck is going on! I don’t understand! Surely the profit is worth the risk!" Donto roared, slamming his fist against a locker in the now-empty soccer dressing room. He had reclaimed the space as his temporary war room, kicking out anyone who dared to disturb his spiraling thoughts.
The voice on the other end of the line was weary. "Donto, it’s not about the money anymore. There isn’t a producer or a runner in Notting Hill willing to cross the Billion Bloodline. Doing business with you isn’t an investment; it’s a suicide note. It’s over."
The full extent of Max’s reach was beginning to dawn on him, but Donto had one more card to play: the law. In a move that felt beneath him, a low blow that even he hadn’t expected to stoop to, he attempted to get the police involved. He knew it was a double-edged sword; an investigation into the "assault" at the university could easily unearth the dirt from his own drug operation.
But he had numbers. He had dozens of athletes with broken bones and bruised egos. He filed the reports, went through the procedures, and waited for the heavy hand of the law to crush Max Stern. Yet, the news never came. When he tried to reach out to his contacts within the precinct, men his father had surely paid off, he was met with unreturned calls and vague excuses. He didn’t realize that Max had already absorbed the connections of the Gilt Rats, weaving the Billion Bloodline into the very fabric of the city’s power structure.
Defeated and drained, Donto eventually retreated to his luxury apartment atop one of the city’s premier hotels. He stood out on the balcony, the wind whipping his hair as he looked out over the sprawling lights of Notting Hill. His curiosity, fueled by a deep, burning embarrassment, finally got the better of him. He had to know if he was the only one.
He pulled out his phone and opened a private group chat. He didn’t include the older generation like Karen; he sent the message to the younger family members, the cousins who were supposed to be his peers.
[Has any of you had a run-in with Max Stern recently?] The text message read.
The responses were almost instantaneous, popping up like warning flares in the dark.
[Did another one bite the dust?] Chad replied. Having long since accepted his own defeat and watched his mother’s influence crumble, Chad had found a strange, hollow peace. He was no longer a player in the game, and he almost relished seeing Donto join him in the stands.
[If you’re asking us to help you take on Max... forget it. It’s not possible,] Bobo added, her usual spite replaced by a dull resignation.
[Wait, what’s wrong? Did something happen to Max?] Cici asked, her message the only one that didn’t carry the weight of fear.
[Don’t bother, Cici,] Chad quickly interjected. [Max isn’t the one you need to worry about. If you ever actually meet with him, you’ll understand. Donto, if you’re asking this, it means he already got to you, didn’t he?]
Donto stared at the screen, his heart sinking. Max hadn’t been lying. He had systematically neutralized every threat within their generation. The "useless" Stern was clearing the board.
"Is he really doing all of this because he wants to become the Heir?" Donto whispered to the empty air. "But why act so fast? Is there really nothing I can do to stop him?"
"You seem to be deep in thought."
Donto spun around, his pulse spiking. The voice hadn’t come from the balcony; it had come from inside his locked living room. Standing by the glass doors was a man he didn’t recognize, dressed in sharp, dark attire and wearing black leather gloves. He stood with a stillness that radiated lethal intent.
"What the heck... who are you? How did you get in here!" Donto snapped. He was in a foul mood, and for a split second, he welcomed the intrusion, he needed someone to hit, someone to vent his rage upon.
"Don’t bother," the man said, his voice as cold as the wind outside. "I’ve already dealt with your security detail in the hall. They won’t be interrupting us."
He took a step forward, the light from the city silhouetting his frame. "What’s important, Donto, is that we both share a common enemy. We both want Max Stern removed from the equation. And with your help, we can finally deal with him together."