Chapter 4
The accusation hung in the bright, cinematic air of the reception hall, a devastating bombshell dropped into the absolute silence. The fifty family guests, capos, and staff stared at the two men, the reality of the internal coup finally brought into the searing light.
"Tell them who arranged my accident."
The words echoed in Oswald’s ears. He stood supported by his two bodyguards, his expensive formal suit rumpled, the pain in his shin entirely forgotten. The "accident" that had shattered Leander’s arm three weeks prior had been officially recorded as a high-speed collision on a slick mountain road. But in the mafia underworld, coincidences were rare.
Oswald looked at the surrounding capos, searching their faces for a flicker of allegiance. He found none. The men who had smiled and drank his champagne minutes ago were now calculating the odds of a war, and they were firmly stepping away from the blast radius.
"You are insane, Leander," Oswald stammered, his American accent cracking with desperate panic. "I am your uncle! I have served this family for thirty years! You are using a phantom conspiracy to justify stealing my assets!"
Leander did not blink. His dark eyes remained locked on the older man, entirely devoid of mercy. He reached out with his uninjured right hand, his fingers gently finding Althea’s trembling arm and keeping her securely by his side.
"Do you expect me to accept the premise that a semi-truck conveniently lost its brakes at the exact moment my convoy passed your territory?" Leander asked, his deep voice carrying a terrifying, measured calm.
"It was a tragedy!" Oswald shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at his nephew. "And this... this is how you repay my loyalty? By letting a servant kick me? By freezing my accounts without a council vote?"
"Is it a requirement to hold a council vote before I cut the financial supply lines of a traitor?" Leander countered, taking a slow, predatory step forward, bringing Althea with him.
The two bodyguards flanking Oswald took a synchronized step backward. They were mercenaries, paid to intimidate, not to die defending a man who had just been outed for attempting to assassinate the sitting boss. They realized instantly that their employer was a dead man, and their loyalty was suddenly a fatal liability.
"They were my accounts!" Oswald yelled, his face flushing a violent, mottled red. "I earned that money! You had no right!"
"Did you earn it, Oswald, or did you siphon it from the family coffers to pay the mercenaries who drove that truck?" Leander asked softly.
Oswald opened his mouth to scream another defense, but the heavy mahogany doors at the far end of the reception hall swung open. Four of Leander’s personal enforcers stepped into the luminous, airy room. Dressed in sharp, tailored suits that mirrored their boss’s aesthetic, they moved with silent, terrifying efficiency.
"Boss, the perimeter is locked down," the lead enforcer reported, his eyes darting briefly to the pale, shaking uncle. "What are your orders?"
Leander did not break eye contact with Oswald. "Will you escort my uncle to the soundproof holding cells in the sub-basement?" Leander asked, his command absolute.
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"No! Get your hands off me!" Oswald screamed as the guards seized his arms, dragging him away from the table. "You will pay for this, Leander! You are tearing the family apart!"
"Am I tearing the family apart, Oswald, or am I simply removing the rot?" Leander asked to his retreating back.
