Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Lionheart's Underbosses

…

Third POV: Underboss of the eastern district 

Conrad stood in the shadows near a dimly lit brothel, his back pressed against the rough stone wall. The air was thick with the smell of ale and cheap perfume, the sounds of drunken laughter and whispered deals filtering through the night. But Conrad's focus never wavered. His dark cloak blended seamlessly with the surroundings, and his hood cast his face into shadow. He was patient, waiting for the right moment.

The target was a man named Boros Kline, a leader of a criminal ring that had been disrupting the peace in Lannisport. The Lionheart family had worked tirelessly to bring order to the streets, but men like Boros thrived in chaos. He was a thorn in their side, a man who trafficked in misery—extortion, smuggling, murder for hire. Tonight, Conrad would remove him.

Boros stumbled out of the brothel, a drunken smirk plastered on his face as he waved off the working women who lingered in the doorway. His bloated form staggered under the weight of excess, his coin purse jingling as he barked orders at the men accompanying him. They were thugs, no more than street scum hired to make Boros feel important.

Conrad's eyes followed Boros as he moved, Conrad's heartbeat steady, his breath controlled. His hand brushed the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath his cloak, but he would not need it tonight. The hidden blade strapped to his forearm would do the job. 

The blade had been a recent gift, freshly forged by Corlos the blacksmith. Corlos, now a trusted member of the Lionheart family, had worked alongside Richard to craft the perfect assassination weapon. It was sleek, silent, and deadly—like Conrad himself. It was a mark of trust, a symbol of his role within the family. Richard had seen to that.

With a silent grace, Conrad slipped from the shadows, weaving through the alleyways parallel to Boros' path. He knew the man's routine, his drunken tendencies, and precisely when he'd make a wrong turn into the quieter, darker streets of Lannisport.

And there it was—the moment. Boros veered away from his men, muttering something incoherent as he stumbled into an alley to relieve himself. His thugs, too engrossed in their own conversation, failed to notice. Conrad moved quickly, his feet making no sound on the cobblestone as he followed Boros into the alley, his presence masked by the shadows that cloaked him.

As Boros leaned against the wall, his back exposed, Conrad was already there—silent, swift, deadly. In one fluid motion, he pressed his left hand against Boros' mouth to stifle any scream, and with his right wrist, the hidden blade shot forward from under his cloak.

The steel slid into Boros' neck with precision, severing his throat. Boros' eyes bulged in shock, his body going rigid as blood poured from the wound, coating Conrad's glove. The man let out a muffled, desperate gurgle, but it was already over. His body sagged, and Conrad eased him to the ground, ensuring there was no sound to alert the others.

Conrad knelt beside Boros, his heart rate as calm as if he had just taken a stroll. He wiped his hidden blade clean on the man's coat, retracting it into its housing with a soft click. He glanced at Boros' lifeless face for a brief moment, his expression impassive. Another threat to the Lionheart family, another disruption, removed.

He moved swiftly, his movements as fluid as the night itself, leaving no trace of his presence. Conrad melted back into the shadows as Boros' men finally noticed their leader was gone. By the time they discovered the body, the assassin was already long gone, a ghost in the night, his mission complete.

The Lionheart family would sleep a little easier tonight. Peace was once again restored in Lannisport, but Conrad knew it would be short-lived. There were always more threats, more men like Boros who thrived in the dark corners of the city. But he would be ready for them—silent, unseen, and deadly.

…

Third POV: Underboss of the western district 

Laenor 

Laenor sat across from the merchant, his eyes fixed on the man's trembling hands as they fidgeted with the edges of his ledger. The merchant, a greasy man named Corin, was sweating despite the cool breeze flowing through the open windows of the room. 

Laenor, as the Lionheart family's master of coins, had come to collect what was owed—a sum of gold that Corin had promised to pay moons ago. But the merchant's nervous energy and shifting eyes told Laenor everything he needed to know before a word had even been spoken.

"Corin," Laenor began, his voice calm, almost friendly. "You know why I'm here."

Corin's head bobbed up and down in a hasty nod, his eyes darting from Laenor to the sack of coins on the table between them. "Yes, yes, my lord, I—I have the payment. It's all here, every copper. I was just—just delayed by a shipment that—"

Laenor raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture. He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he studied the merchant's face. 

Corin couldn't meet his gaze, his fingers twisting nervously around the edge of his shirt, betraying his discomfort. Laenor had seen this too many times before—lies hidden beneath trembling lips and shifty eyes. He was a master at reading people, every twitch and fidget revealing more than words ever could.

"Corin," Laenor said slowly, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "You're lying."

The merchant froze, his eyes widening in surprise. He stammered, his hand reaching for the sack of coins. "No, no, I swear, my lord, it's all here. The gold is—"

Laenor didn't move, but his presence alone was enough to cut Corin off. The silence that followed was suffocating. He let the man squirm for a moment before he spoke again, his voice low and dangerous. "You've already delayed your payments for two moons. You think I don't know where every coin that passes through this city goes? You think you can lie to the Lionheart family?"

Corin's face drained of color. He tried to speak, but Laenor leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto the merchant's. "Tell me the truth. Now."

The merchant swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. His hand trembled as he reached for the sack of coins, opening it to reveal far less than what was owed. "I—I had to pay off some debts, my lord. Please, I was going to make it right, I swear."

Laenor's gaze didn't waver. He stood slowly, the chair scraping the floor as he pushed it back. The merchant recoiled slightly, fear flashing across his face. Laenor didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. His reputation, the name he had built for himself as the Lionheart family's master of coins, was enough.

"You owe the Lionheart family," Laenor said quietly, stepping around the table. "And you've been lying to us. Do you know what happens to people who lie to the Lionhearts?"

Corin's mouth opened, but no words came out. Laenor reached out and grabbed the merchant by the collar, pulling him to his feet with a single, smooth motion. He leaned in close, his voice a whisper in Corin's ear. "I will ask you again, and this time, you will tell me everything. Or the Lionheart family will take what we are owed—by other means."

The merchant's breath came in shallow gasps. "Please, my lord," he whimpered. "I—I was trying to hide some of the payment. I was hoping to use it to bribe a city guard, to get some shipments through without inspection. I thought I could pay you back once I made more profit, I swear!"

Laenor released the man, letting him stumble backward. He crossed his arms, eyes narrowing as he considered the merchant's words. "You thought you could cheat the family and then come back with a bigger profit," he said, his tone cold. "You risked your life for a few extra coins."

Corin collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "Please, my lord! I swear it won't happen again. I'll pay double next moon!"

Laenor stared down at him, the flicker of disgust crossing his face. He despised greed, especially when it endangered the family's business. But Laenor was not without reason. He crouched down, coming eye-to-eye with the trembling merchant.

"You'll pay what's owed," Laenor said evenly, "and you'll pay thrice for lying. If you miss another payment—if I even think you're lying again—your debts won't matter. We'll take your business, your shipments, and your life."

Corin nodded furiously, his hands shaking. "Yes, my lord, I—I understand."

Laenor rose to his full height, casting one last look at the terrified merchant before turning toward the door. "You'll have one moon to settle this. If you fail, you'll lose everything."

As Laenor walked away, he knew Corin wouldn't dare cross the Lionheart family again. He didn't need to. The merchant's fear was enough.

…

Third POV: Underboss of the southern district 

Jon POV

Jon stood in the shadowed alley, his thick, muscular frame blending into the darkness. His face was as cold and expressionless as stone, his deep-set eyes scanning the quiet street ahead. The target: a merchant establishment, a bustling shop that had been too slow to bend the knee to Richard's vision for the Lionheart family. Tonight, that would change.

He shifted his weight, feeling the comforting presence of the daggers hidden beneath his thick cloak. His soldiers, hardened men loyal to the Lionhearts, stood behind him, waiting for his signal. 

Every movement they made was precise, calculated—just as Richard had taught them. The expansion of the Lionheart family's power across Lannisport needed to be swift and decisive. Jon, ever loyal and ruthless, would see to that.

With a simple nod, Jon stepped out of the alley. His men followed silently, their boots barely making a sound as they crossed the cobbled street toward the merchant's shop. It was late enough that most honest folk were in their homes, the flicker of candlelight spilling through the narrow windows lining the streets. The merchant, however, had been working late, greed and pride keeping his shop open long after others had closed.

Jon reached the door and knocked twice, a solid, measured sound. A beat passed, then another. The door creaked open, and a nervous-looking lad, no older than sixteen, poked his head out. His eyes widened as he saw Jon's hulking figure and the men flanking him.

"I-I'm sorry, we're closed—" the lad began, but Jon was already moving. He shoved the door open with a force that sent the boy stumbling back into the shop.

"We're not here to buy," Jon growled, his deep voice resonating through the room. His men spilled into the shop behind him, their presence filling the small space with an air of danger.

The merchant, a plump, balding man, appeared from the back of the shop, his face pale with fear. He had clearly heard the commotion and knew exactly who stood before him. "Please," he stammered, his hands shaking. "I-I can make the payment next week. I just need more time—"

Jon's eyes were cold and unfeeling as he stepped toward the merchant. "Your time's run out." His words were blunt, final.

Without waiting for a response, Jon grabbed the merchant by the front of his shirt and slammed him into a nearby counter. The shop rattled from the impact, and the merchant let out a cry of pain, clutching his side as Jon's men began moving through the store, overturning tables, smashing shelves, and ripping apart anything of value. The chaos was swift and brutal, a message to anyone who dared resist the Lionheart family's will.

The merchant gasped for breath, his face pressed against the wood of the counter. "Please, Jon," he whimpered. "I'll do anything—just give me more time!"

Jon leaned down, his voice low and menacing. "Richard gave you a chance. Now it's my turn."

With that, he hauled the man to his feet and threw him across the room. The merchant crashed into a display of fine silks, sending bolts of fabric tumbling to the floor. Jon strode toward him, his fists clenched, ready to finish the job.

But before he could lay another hand on the merchant, the man cried out again, his voice desperate. "I'll pay! I swear it! I'll join the Lionhearts, just don't kill me!"

Jon paused, his expression unreadable as he stared down at the broken man. He had seen this before—cowards, weaklings, willing to sell their souls for survival. Normally, Jon wouldn't give them the time of day. But tonight, Richard's plan was clear: expand by any means necessary.

"You'll pay," Jon said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you'll join. From now on, everything you make belongs to the Lionhearts."

The merchant nodded frantically, still shaking on the floor. "Yes, yes, I will. Anything you want!"

Jon glanced at his men, giving them a sharp nod. They stopped their destruction, leaving the shop in disarray but not beyond repair. The message had been sent, and the merchant would remember it.

Turning back to the merchant, Jon crouched down to his level, his voice low and threatening. "If you fail us again, there won't be a second chance."

With that, Jon rose to his full height, towering over the man like a shadow of death. He turned on his heel, his men falling in line behind him as they exited the shop. The night air was cool, but Jon's blood was pumping with adrenaline, his mind already on the next phase of Richard's plan.

Lannisport would soon be under the Lionheart family.

…

Third POV: Underboss of the northern district

Addams POV

Addams sat in a dimly lit room above a bustling tavern in Lannisport, the low hum of conversation drifting up through the floorboards. His fingers traced the edge of a map laid out on the table before him, each mark indicating a point of interest, a potential lead, or a whisper of intrigue. 

At eighteen, his age belied his expertise in shadows and secrets, where precision, discretion, and control ruled. These were traits Addams had mastered during his street years, turning him into a pivotal figure within the Lionheart family.

He wore a simple tunic, blending seamlessly with the tavern's working-class patrons below. His talent for adopting any appearance or demeanor made him nearly invisible in plain sight. Today, he was just another face in the crowd, a nobody with everything under his control. 

As he waited for reports from his scouts, he reflected on how his network had become the beating heart of the family's growing power. The Lionheart family thrived on knowledge, and Addams was its unseen conduit.

A soft knock broke his thoughts. He didn't move at first, his eyes still on the map while his fingers rolled a coin between them, a habit born from years of waiting in silence.

The knock came again, followed by a voice. "Sir, it's me."

One of his best scouts entered—a girl no older than twelve, with the look of a street urchin but eyes sharp as steel. She moved with purpose, quick and observant, just as he had taught her.

"The merchant district is full of gossip, sir," she began, eager but measured. "The docks, too. There's talk of a new shipment—something big. Something the merchants might want to get their hands on."

Addams nodded, listening closely. Every whisper mattered, and through his scouts, every secret flowed directly to him. He had created a network so vast and effective that not even the smallest rumor escaped his notice. This information would fuel Richard's plans, allowing the Lionheart family to strike from the shadows, always several steps ahead.

"Good," he said calmly, his voice barely a murmur. "Keep an eye on that shipment. I want to know everything—who's involved, what they're moving, and where it's headed. Tell the others to be vigilant. Report to me as soon as anything changes."

The girl nodded, her understanding clear as she slipped out of the room, disappearing into the night like one of Addams' many phantoms.

Alone again, Addams leaned back in his chair, the flickering candlelight casting fleeting shadows across the map. 

Every corner of Lannisport was mapped, every alley marked. Soon, there wouldn't be a secret in the city he didn't know. With his network of spies, he was building something far greater than brute force—he was creating an empire of knowledge, and that was the most dangerous weapon of all.

The Lionheart family would rise, not just with steel but with the power of information. And as long as Addams kept pulling the strings, nothing could stop them.