Chapter 3
The tension in the bright, luminous air of the reception hall was so thick it felt tangible. The fifty guests held their collective breath, watching the hierarchy of the Greystone syndicate violently clash.
Althea Whitmore did not wait for the bodyguards to react, nor did she wait for Leander to recover his footing. With a swift, desperate motion, she drew her leg back and delivered ONE hard, devastating kick directly into Oswald’s shin.
The impact was sharp and incredibly precise. Oswald let out a loud, high-pitched gasp of pain, the sudden agony in his leg instantly breaking his vicious grip on Leander’s wrist. The older capo stumbled backward, his expensive formal suit twisting awkwardly as he lost his balance completely.
He fell backward, buckling heavily against an empty, upholstered reception chair. The chair slid a few inches across the polished floor under his weight, making a loud, scraping sound that echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.
The two towering bodyguards, caught completely off guard by the sudden violence from the delicate housemaid, lunged forward. They caught their employer just before he could hit the floor entirely, hauling him back up to his feet. They glared at Althea, their hands instinctively reaching inside their dark suits for their weapons, ready to tear her apart for assaulting a senior capo.
But Althea did not run. She did not cower. She immediately turned her back on the furious uncle and the armed men, entirely unbothered by the threat they posed.
She turned back to Leander. With agonizing care, her hands trembling violently, she gently lifted his injured arm and carefully settled it back into the heavy fabric of his medical sling. She smoothed the material over his broad shoulder, her expressive eyes frantically searching his face with profound concern, ensuring that the bone had not shifted further.
Leander stood perfectly still, his chest heaving with adrenaline. He looked down at the beautiful woman adjusting his sling. He did not pull away. He stayed incredibly close beside her, his massive frame acting as an impenetrable shield against the rest of the room. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as he looked at her shaking fingers, a profound, unspoken gratitude radiating from his dark eyes.
The watching guests fell entirely silent. The hum of conversations, the clinking of champagne glasses, the soft background murmurs—all of it ceased instantly. The room was paralyzed. A housemaid had just physically assaulted the highest-ranking capo in the Greystone family to save the boss from torture.
Leander straightened his spine, pulling himself up to his full, towering height. The momentary weakness was gone, replaced entirely by the cold, calculating apex predator that ruled the city. He looked over Althea’s head and met Oswald’s furious, watering eyes.
"Tell them who arranged my accident," Leander said.
May you like
His deep, measured voice was quiet, but it vibrated with a menacing, apocalyptic fury that resonated in the bones of every person in the room. It was not a question; it was a lethal command, an accusation that shifted the dynamic of the entire syndicate in a single breath.
Oswald stopped rubbing his bruised shin. He froze, the color draining completely from his face.
