Chapter 36 - The Viper's Den
Forty-eight hours after the sniper attack, the high society of the capital was still buzzing with whispered rumors about the sudden inferno that had consumed the Caldwell estate. Official reports claimed it was a tragic gas explosion, but those who moved in the shadows of power knew better: the Caldwells had crossed Sylvester Kane, and they had paid with their blood.
Yet Lord Alistair Sterling maintained his unshakeable veneer of aristocratic untouchability.
On the fortieth floor of the Grand Luminary Tower, the Sovereign Consortium was hosting its annual closed-door executive banquet. The attendees represented the wealthiest, most corrupt titans of industry—men and women who manipulated currencies, broke governments, and bought immunity with single signatures.
I stood beside the double doors of the private banquet hall, disguised beneath a floor-length emerald silk evening gown that hugged my silhouette with regal defiance. My dark hair was pinned up in an intricate chignon fastened with diamond pins, and around my neck hung a discreet titanium transmitter linked directly to Sylvester’s assault team.
Beside me, looking nothing like an invalid, Sylvester wore an immaculate, bespoke charcoal tuxedo designed to conceal the heavy ballistic vest and medical harness beneath. His posture was rigid, cold, and utterly dominating. At our side walked Lucas, dressed in a sharp navy blazer, his chin held high, his posture mirroring Sylvester's predatory calm.
The two towering security guards at the gilded entrance moved forward to block our path, their hands resting near their concealed holsters.
"Private function, sir," the first guard stated flatly. "Identification and private seal required."
Sylvester did not even look at the man. He reached into his coat with his right hand and withdrew a solid black platinum card bearing an embossed obsidian crest—the ancient seal of the Vance Patriarchate, resurrected from ten years of oblivion.
He shoved the card against the guard’s chest with enough force to knock the breath from the man's lungs.
May you like
"Tell Alistair Sterling," Sylvester’s voice cut through the air like a cold blade, "that the beggar child he tried to execute has arrived to claim his seat at the head of the table."
***
