Chapter 8
With Malik safely removed from the room, the atmosphere in the grand hall plummeted from tense to apocalyptic. The bright, cinematic lighting illuminated the sudden, lethal shift in Darius’s posture. He was no longer holding back for the sake of his child's innocent eyes.
"Lock the doors," Darius commanded, his deep voice resonating like a death knell.
The white American bodyguards in the professional suits moved with terrifying, synchronized precision. The heavy brass deadbolts on the main reception doors clicked shut simultaneously. The civilian guests—the politicians, the socialites, the innocent bystanders—began to murmur in genuine panic, realizing they were now sealed inside a room with a Don dispensing absolute judgment.
"Everyone who is not a sworn member of this syndicate will move to the east wing dining room immediately," Darius announced, not raising his voice, yet projecting absolute authority. "You will leave your phones on the tables. You will wait there until you are told you may leave."
The civilians did not need to be told twice. A frantic, yet eerily silent mass exodus occurred as the wealthy guests scrambled away from the center of the hall, practically sprinting into the adjoining east wing. The heavy doors were shut behind them, leaving only the hardened capos, the bodyguards, the weeping Evelyn, and the kneeling Andre.
The room felt massive and empty, yet suffused with the scent of impending violence.
Darius slowly unbuttoned the cuffs of his suit jacket. He slipped the tailored garment off his broad, muscular shoulders, handing it without looking to a waiting bodyguard. Beneath it, his dress shirt was impeccably tailored, unbuttoned at the chest, revealing the full extent of the moderate, neatly placed tattoos creeping up his neck. He looked like a beautifully sculpted statue of a dark god of war.
"You thought," Darius said, walking slowly back toward the reception sofa where Evelyn was still shivering in her sapphire gown, "that you could orchestrate my death, and seamlessly take my place."
"I was stupid!" Evelyn sobbed, sliding off the sofa and dropping to the floor, her pale porcelain skin pressed against the cold marble. She crawled toward him, her diamond earrings swaying. "He poisoned my mind, Darius! I was afraid! Forgive me!"
"Forgiveness," Darius whispered, looking down at her with a chilling detachment, "is a luxury afforded to those who make mistakes. Betrayal is a choice."
He looked up, locking eyes with his lead bodyguard. "Take her to the basement holding cells. Do not bruise her. Do not speak to her. Let her sit in the dark until I decide how to handle her family."
"No! Please! Darius!" Evelyn shrieked, thrashing wildly as two massive bodyguards hauled her roughly to her feet by her arms. Her designer heels kicked uselessly at the air as she was dragged mercilessly out of the bright, beautiful hall and into the dark depths of the estate.
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Darius watched her go, feeling nothing but a cold, heavy satisfaction. He turned his attention back to the center of the room.
Andre was still kneeling on the floor, but his demeanor had changed. Realizing that begging was useless, and that execution was inevitable, the older cousin's survival instinct kicked into a violent, desperate overdrive. He was a cornered animal, and he was not going to die on his knees.
