Chapter 3
The tension in the grand ballroom was a physical weight, pressing down on the chests of the hundreds of guests who had stopped completely to watch the confrontation. The elite capos of the syndicate, men who had committed unspeakable acts without flinching, were entirely paralyzed by the sheer, unadulterated danger radiating from their boss.
Constance scoffed, rolling her eyes as if Imani’s words were nothing more than an annoyance. She adjusted her heavy pearl and diamond layered necklace, her designer heels clicking lightly against the marble.
"This is exactly why this marriage was a mistake," Constance muttered loudly to a nearby associate, completely ignoring the lethal glint in Imani’s eyes. "No refinement. They bring their gutter manners into high society and expect us to applaud."
Imani didn't acknowledge Constance’s blatant disrespect. She completely ignored the older woman, stepping past her with terrifying, fluid grace. Her striking crimson velvet evening gown swept across the marble floor, leaving a faint trail of the champagne she had knelt in. Her black stilettos made sharp, rhythmic sounds—like the ticking of a bomb counting down to zero.
She walked directly toward Preston.
Preston shifted his weight, his patent leather dress shoes squeaking slightly. He was taller and physically larger than his wife, but in that moment, he looked incredibly small. He tried to maintain his arrogant posture, clutching the lapels of his midnight blue tuxedo, but his eyes darted nervously toward the bodyguards surrounding the perimeter of the room. He suddenly realized that none of them were moving to protect him. They were loyal only to the woman walking toward him.
Imani stopped exactly two feet away from her husband. She looked up at him, her beautiful, glowing dark brown face completely devoid of any emotion. It was a face carved from stone, cold and unforgiving.
"You assaulted my mother," Imani stated, her voice barely above a whisper, yet the acoustics of the ballroom carried it to every corner.
"She was in the way, Imani," Preston shot back defensively, his voice cracking slightly. He tried to inject bravado into his tone. "She doesn't belong here. Look at her. Look at this crowd. I am your husband. I am the face of this organization to these people. I won't have her making us look weak."
"The only thing making us look weak," Imani replied, her voice ice-cold and dripping with absolute authority, "is the fact that you are still standing."
Preston blinked, confused by the statement. "What are you talking about?"
Imani’s dark eyes locked onto his, completely unblinking. "Kneel and apologize."
The command hung in the air, absolute and non-negotiable. The guests held their collective breath. The capos watched with dark, unreadable expressions.
For a fraction of a second, Preston actually considered it. The sheer terror of her command almost broke his pride. But then he looked past her and saw his mother, Constance, watching him with a mixture of expectation and horror. He realized that if he knelt before a Black woman in front of the entire underworld and his own racist mother, his reputation, his manhood, and his influence would be permanently destroyed.
Preston’s chest heaved. He looked back at Imani, his fear suddenly transmuting into desperate, foolish anger. He threw his head back and laughed loudly right in her face.
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"Kneel?" Preston scoffed, a forced, arrogant laugh echoing through the room. "Are you out of your mind? I’m your husband! I don't kneel for anyone, especially not for—"
He never finished the sentence.
