Chapter 1
The memorial garden of the Greythorne estate was a masterpiece of horticultural devotion, bathed in bright, cinematic light. There was no yellow tint to the afternoon sun; it simply offered a natural, luminous warmth that illuminated the vibrant colors of the flowering beds. Fifty guests and staff members milled about the crowded garden-party tables, their fair, rosy skin glowing under the clear sky. The air hummed with crisp American accents, the clinking of champagne flutes, and a dangerous undercurrent of syndicate politics.
At thirty-two, Malcolm Greythorne was the undisputed boss of the family, a man whose reputation for calculated violence was masked by striking, masculine handsomeness. His dark hair was swept back, his sharp jawline defined by neat stubble. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit, his refined neck and hand tattoos partially hidden by expensive silk. A heavy family signet ring rested on his finger, catching the light alongside a polished wristwatch and immaculate leather shoes.
"The waterfront expansion is proceeding perfectly, Malcolm," a senator remarked, leaning against the champagne bar.
Malcolm’s deep, measured voice was a low rumble. "We find that precision ensures success, Senator. Do you disagree?"
"Not at all," the politician replied, offering a nervous, placating smile.
Suddenly, the cheerful atmosphere of the garden party fractured. The heavy scent of expensive perfume announced the arrival of Hester Greythorne. At fifty-three, Malcolm’s aunt and the estate administrator wore an elegant, sweeping garden-party gown dripping with diamond jewelry. She moved with the arrogance of untested power, flanked by two massive bodyguards in dark suits and earpieces—one Black American, one white American.
Hester stopped directly in front of the most meticulously maintained flower bed in the garden. It was the only part of the estate Malcolm fiercely protected, as his late mother had planted it years ago.
"This entire section needs to be ripped up," Hester announced, her voice carrying across the silent, manicured lawn. "It ruins the aesthetic of the new patio."
"You will not touch this soil, Hester," Malcolm stated, stepping smoothly in front of the flower bed. His voice remained perfectly level, but the temperature in the garden seemed to drop ten degrees.
"I am the estate administrator, Malcolm," Hester sneered, stepping into his personal space. "You may run the family, but I run the house."
Before Malcolm could respond, Hester snapped her diamond-adorned fingers.
The two bodyguards moved with terrifying speed. The Black American guard seized Malcolm’s right arm while the white American guard locked down his left. The sheer force of their grip immobilized the Mafia boss beside the delicate flowers.
Freya Whitwell, a twenty-five-year-old housemaid, stood near the planting bench, her beautiful, expressive eyes wide with horror. She wore a traditional black maid dress, a pristine white apron, a white lace maid headband, and sensible flats. Her neatly pinned hair framed a face drained of all color. She watched, paralyzed, as the two massive men forced Malcolm's upper arms against his sides, overpowering him through sheer, sudden leverage.
Hester stepped forward, her eyes burning with malicious triumph. She reached out and violently grabbed Malcolm’s wrist, ignoring the artistic tattoos marking his skin. With a sudden, vicious surge of strength, she forced his hand downward, plunging his fingers into the damp soil of the flower bed.
May you like
"Your dead mother doesn’t own this garden," Hester mocked loudly, ensuring every guest heard the public humiliation.
She twisted his wrist upward, violently forcing him to uproot a beautiful, blooming flowering plant. Damp soil spilled across his polished leather shoes as the roots tore from the earth. The guests stared in stunned, horrified silence as the matriarch of the family desecrated the only sacred ground the boss possessed.
