Chapter 6 - The Prelude to War
The night before the wedding, the heavy storm that had been brewing over the Georgia coast finally broke. Thunder rattled the stained-glass windows of the Cathedral of St. John, where the rehearsal dinner was being held in the adjacent parish hall.
Over fifty high-profile guests—politicians, syndicate bosses, police chiefs, and elite financiers—sat around long, linen-covered tables, drinking expensive wine and eating prime rib.
Desmond sat at the center table, holding court, basking in the attention. He raised his crystal glass, knocking a spoon against the side to command the room's attention.
"A toast!" Desmond called out, his voice booming with fake warmth.
The room fell quiet. Grant sat at the head table beside Monica, his expression unreadable, his hand resting casually in his pocket, turning his plain silver ring.
"To my nephew, Grant," Desmond said, turning his sinister, smiling eyes toward Grant. "When his father died, I promised I would guide him. I watched him grow into a man of incredible power. And though he has suffered deep personal losses..." Desmond paused, giving Grant a hypocritical, sad look, "...he has shown the resilience of a true Holloway. To Grant and Monica—may their union bring absolute prosperity to our families!"
"To Grant and Monica!" the crowd echoed, raising their glasses and drinking.
Grant stood up slowly. He picked up his own glass, looking directly at Desmond.
"Thank you, Uncle," Grant said, his voice crisp and clear, carrying across the silent hall. "You’ve always been very generous with your guidance. You taught me that family is everything."
Grant took a small sip of his wine, then set the glass down with a soft clack.
"And you taught me," Grant continued, his gray-blue eyes fixing onto Desmond like crosshairs, "that a man who betrays his own blood should never be allowed to finish his drink."
A sudden, uncomfortable murmur ran through the crowd. Desmond’s smile stiffened, his hand tightening around his glass.
"Grant," Desmond laughed nervously, "you've had a bit too much to drink—"
"I don't drink when I’m working, Desmond," Grant interrupted smoothly. He looked over at Marcus, his head of security, who was standing near the entrance doors.
Grant gave a single, barely perceptible nod.
Marcus stepped outside and pulled the heavy iron doors shut, locking them from the outside with a heavy chain.
Panic instantly flared among the guests. Arthur Langford jumped to his feet. "What is the meaning of this, Holloway?!"
"Sit down, Arthur," Grant commanded, his voice vibrating with absolute authority. "This is a family matter."
Grant walked slowly down the center aisle toward his uncle. The room was so silent you could hear the rain hammering against the roof.
"Five months ago, a woman named Jolene Tab disappeared," Grant said loudly. "A fake death certificate was generated at Mercy Memorial Hospital. The man who ordered that certificate is sitting right here."
Desmond stood up, dropping his fake warmth entirely. His face turned red with rage. "You're insane! You're losing your mind over a dead mistress!"
"She isn't dead, Desmond," Grant said, stopping three feet from his uncle.
Grant pulled his phone from his pocket, pressed a button, and held it out.
The speaker filled the room with a crystal-clear recording—a conversation between Desmond and Dr. Alan Vance from three weeks prior, discussing the payment for the falsified documents and Desmond’s instructions to have Jolene "permanently disposed of" if she ever returned to Savannah.
The hall erupted into gasps and shock. Arthur Langford stared at Desmond in total disbelief.
Desmond’s face went pale, then twisted into a mask of pure venom. He reached into his coat for his concealed snub-nosed revolver.
"You arrogant little bastard!" Desmond screamed.
Before Desmond’s hand could clear his suit lining, Grant moved with blinding speed. He grabbed Desmond’s wrist, twisting it violently downward until the bone snapped with a sickening crack. Desmond shrieked in agony, dropping the gun to the floor.
May you like
Grant slammed his uncle’s head flat onto the wooden dining table, pinning him down with an iron forearm across his throat.
"I didn't bring you here to accuse you, Desmond," Grant growled into his uncle’s ear as the old man gasped for air. "I brought you here to execute you."
