Chapter 9
The devastating decree hung in the bright, luminous air of the theater, an absolute judgment that fundamentally altered the political structure of the New York syndicate. Nathan collapsed to his knees on the carpet, his perfectly tailored black trousers wrinkling as he buried his face in his hands, sobbing pathetically. He had sacrificed his daughter for ambition, and in return, he had lost everything.
Roland did not spare him a second glance. The veteran Mafia boss turned his broad, powerful shoulders toward his loyal capos, who had been waiting in disciplined silence for his command.
"Silas," Roland called out softly.
"Yes, Boss," the senior capo responded instantly, stepping forward into the bright light, his face set in a mask of grim determination.
"Clear the room," Roland ordered, his deep, raspy voice carrying effortless authority. "The gala is concluded. Escort the guests to their vehicles. Confiscate all communication devices at the door. If a single photograph or whisper of what happened here tonight reaches the streets, I will hold the entire room accountable."
The white American guests didn't need to be told twice. They moved in a hushed, panicked frenzy, practically running toward the main exits, desperate to escape the gravitational pull of the patriarch's wrath.
"And them?" Silas asked, gesturing toward the three broken figures on the floor.
"Strip them of their phones and weapons," Roland commanded coldly. "Have the medics patch up Harrison just enough to keep him conscious. Then transport all three of them to the secure warehouse on the docks. Lock them in the holding cells. I will deal with them... when my granddaughter is safely asleep."
"Understood, Boss," Silas nodded. He signaled to the heavily armed bodyguards in professional suits. The men moved with swift, terrifying efficiency, hauling the groaning, bleeding traitors up from the floor and dragging them toward the secure service elevators in the back.
Roland ignored the pathetic pleas echoing from Nathan as he was dragged away. He focused entirely on the small, trembling child in his arms.
"Let's go home, Zuri," Roland whispered warmly, pressing a fierce, protective kiss to her forehead. "Grandpa is going to make you a cup of hot chocolate, and we are going to watch your favorite movie."
May you like
"Okay, Grandpa," Zuri sniffled, resting her head heavily against his chest, finding absolute safety against the velvet lapel of his midnight-blue tuxedo.
Roland carried his granddaughter out of the ruined backstage area, walking through the bright, empty corridors of the theater toward his armored vehicle waiting in the private alleyway. He moved with the quiet, assured power of a king who had just cleansed his court of treason, but his mind was already calculating the brutal war that was about to unfold on the streets of New York.
