Chapter 4
The deep, low timbre of Basil's voice was quiet, but it carried an undeniable, terrifying finality that echoed across the silent pavilion. The cinematic light caught the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the absolute, freezing rage masked by his measured composure.
Every single guest in the garden turned toward him. The fifty capos and donors held their breath, waiting for the executioner's blow.
"What did you do to my father?" Basil asked quietly.
The question hung in the bright, luminous air like an executioner's blade. It was not a casual inquiry; it was a deadly accusation, dripping with the absolute promise of blood.
Hollis stopped wiping his wet face with his sleeve. He froze, the freezing water dripping from his chin onto his ruined shirt. The sudden shift in the narrative from a simple public humiliation to an accusation of patricide paralyzed him beneath the staring eyes of the syndicate.
"What are you talking about?" Hollis stammered, his voice shaking as he realized the true cost of his theatrical power play. "He died of a heart attack! Everyone knows that!"
"Does a heart attack require the immediate replacement of his personal security detail three days before the event, Hollis?" Basil inquired smoothly, refusing to raise his voice.
"I didn't replace them!" Hollis cried, his arrogant posture completely collapsing. "They were reassigned by the council! I had nothing to do with it!"
"Are you under the impression that I haven't been reading the offshore ledgers for the past twelve months?" Basil asked, his cold eyes narrowing into lethal slits. "Did you believe the sudden influx of capital into your private accounts the week he died went unnoticed?"
Hollis gasped, the remaining color draining from his face. He looked frantically left and right, his eyes silently pleading with the relatives and capos who had surrounded him just an hour ago.
But the crowd had turned. The people who had watched in silence when the whisky was poured now looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. They understood the wind had shifted. Basil was not a weak boy to be pushed around; Hollis had overplayed his hand in the most catastrophic way possible, and the boss had just laid out the evidence of a coup.
Desperate, Hollis looked toward his two bodyguards. The men he paid handsomely to protect him were standing rigidly by his sides.
"Do something!" Hollis hissed at them. "He is threatening me! Remove him!"
The Black American bodyguard swallowed hard, his eyes flicking toward Basil, then down to the floor. The white American guard slowly took a step backward, distancing himself from the man.
"Do you men truly wish to die today defending a man who murdered his own blood to steal a throne?" Basil asked, shifting his unwavering gaze to the two guards.
Both men immediately raised their hands, palms outward, in a universal gesture of surrender. They stepped away from the wicker loveseat, leaving Hollis entirely alone.
Odile remained close beside Basil. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she didn't retreat to the shadows. Her fingers still trembled slightly as she held the dry towel against his collar, offering him the same quiet, protective affection she had shown him when he was pinned.
"Marcus," Basil called out, his voice ringing across the lawn.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit stepped out from the crowd of guests. "Yes, Boss."
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"Will you escort my cousin to the holding cells in the basement?" Basil asked. "And ensure his access codes to the syndicate accounts are revoked immediately."
Hollis let out a high-pitched wail of despair as Marcus and three other men moved forward, grabbing him roughly by the arms and dragging him away from the pavilion, his protests echoing through the bright, airy afternoon.
