Chapter 4
The luminous, airy atmosphere of the dining room had completely shattered, replaced by a suffocating, electric tension. Every guest at the surrounding tables had stopped eating, their crystal glasses forgotten, their eyes wide as they stared at the unprecedented scene. A housemaid had just struck a made man, the acting manager of the syndicate, and defended the crippled boss.
Victor touched his stinging cheek, his face burning with a mixture of shock and profound humiliation. He looked up from the upholstered chair, his eyes locking onto Elena with pure, unadulterated malice. The brass badge lay forgotten on the floor, a symbol of his fractured authority.
"You’re fired," Victor snarled, his voice trembling with a threatening, dangerous edge. "Get out of this club before I have you thrown into the street."
Elena’s striking hand trembled faintly beside her white apron, the adrenaline surging through her veins. Despite the overwhelming danger, she held her position. She did not take a single step backward. Her fair, rosy skin was pale, but her expressive eyes remained fixed on Victor, refusing to surrender the space she had claimed.
Behind her, the rhythmic, steady breathing of the mafia boss broke the silence. Adrian slowly raised his eyes, tracking the trajectory of his nephew’s fall. He looked at the torn fabric on Victor's suit, and then at the trembling, protective stance of the woman standing before him.
"Are you attempting to dismiss my personal staff, Victor?" Adrian asked.
His voice was incredibly quiet, lacking any trace of the humiliation Victor had tried to inflict upon him. It was a voice that commanded empires, a tone that promised absolute destruction.
Adrian looked directly into his nephew’s eyes, his cold, observant gaze piercing through Victor’s bravado.
"Who promised you my chair?" Adrian asked, his words measured and lethal.
The question hung in the air, heavy and precise. Victor’s anger disappeared in an instant, replaced by a sudden, visceral panic. The blood drained from his face. He realized, too late, the massive miscalculation he had made.
Without thinking, Victor’s eyes instinctively darted away from Adrian. He looked nervously over his shoulder, his gaze fixing desperately on the heavy, closed oak doors that led into the adjoining VIP room.
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Adrian noticed the look immediately. The slight shift in Victor's eyes told him everything he needed to know. The ambush, the sudden boldness of his nephew, the delayed shipments—it was not the work of a single, arrogant man. There was a puppet master in the next room.
Elena remained standing protectively before his wheelchair. Adrian slowly reached out his uninjured hand, gently touching her white apron to signal her to step aside. As she moved, Adrian slowly turned his wheelchair, his cold eyes locking onto those same closed doors.
