Chapter 2: The Mayor's Terror
The silence inside the Alexandria Hotel ballroom was so thick you could hear the soft dripping of champagne from the ruined catering cart. Two hundred of the most powerful people in Washington watched as Mayor Thomas Miller, a man known for his ruthless political power, stood frozen before an old man in a cheap black suit.
"Dad?" Julian asked, his voice losing all of its former arrogance, replaced by a sudden, nervous confusion. He stepped closer to his father. "What’s wrong with you? Why are you looking at him like that? This old loser refused to clean up his mess and insulted me. Tell his supervisor to fire him."
Mayor Miller turned his head slowly toward his son. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw trembling. Without warning, the Mayor raised his hand and slammed it violently across Julian’s face—far harder than Julian had struck Frank.
CRACK!
The force of the blow knocked Julian backward onto the floorboards, his perfectly gelled hair falling across his forehead in messy strands. He clutched his burning cheek, staring up at his father in absolute horror. "Dad! Why did you do that?! I’m your son!"
"Shut your mouth!" the Mayor roared, his voice cracking with an overwhelming panic. "Shut your mouth before you destroy everything I’ve built!"
The guests gasped, several politicians backing away into the shadows of the pillars, realizing that this situation was far bigger than a simple wedding dispute.
Frank slowly stood up from his knee. He didn't look triumphant; his face remained an unreadable, cold mask of pure military discipline. He adjusted the lapels of his cheap black jacket, brushed a bit of dust from his trousers, and looked down at the trembling Mayor.
"Thomas," Frank said softly, his voice carrying clearly through the silent room. "It seems your boy has some behavioral issues. You didn't teach him very well."
"Sir... Mr. Vance... I am deeply sorry," Mayor Miller stammered, his knees literally buckled as he bowed his head in front of the security guard. "Julian is an idiot. He doesn't know anything. He didn't see the registry... please, I beg you, don't execute the protocol."
"Registry? What registry?" Carter, the other groomsman, whispered in terror, backing away toward the exit doors, but two large security guards in dark suits instantly blocked his path, their arms crossed over their chests.
Julian scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his nose, his eyes darting between his father and the old man. "Dad, who is this guy? He’s just a regular security guard! Why are you begging him?"
"He is not a security guard, Julian!" the Mayor screamed, turning on his son with a desperate, wild rage. "Frank Vance is the former Director of the Federal Security Oversight Committee! He is the man who funded my campaign! He is the man who owns the mortgages on my house, my office, and the very ground you are standing on! If he writes one single code into that radio, our entire family will be in a federal prison by midnight!"
The ballroom went completely dead silent again. The bride let out a sharp, choked gasp, dropping her wine glass onto the floor, where it shattered next to the remains of Julian's glass.
Julian stared at Frank, his face turning from a fiery red to a deathly, hollow white. The old man he had called "furniture," the man he had forced to crawl on the floor, was the shadow king of the city.
Frank looked at the Mayor, then turned his gaze toward Julian. He slowly removed his gray security gloves, dropping them onto the catering cart. He cracked his knuckles, a sharp, metallic sound that sounded like a gun loading in the quiet room.
"Your boy said that if I touch him, I disappear, Thomas," Frank said, stepping closer to Julian. "I want to see if his father's name can protect him from a man who used to dismantle foreign cartels before breakfast. My boy picked the wrong one tonight. My fists still work."
May you like
Julian backed away until his shoulders hit the heavy marble pillar, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "No... please... I didn't know... I’m sorry!"
"Apologies don't fix a broken dress, Julian," Frank said, his eyes flashing with a sudden, lethal hunger. "And they certainly don't fix my shoes."
