Chapter 91
Raven
"God!" Julian exploded once they were out of earshot, his voice cracking with excitement. "Now I know why my father chose you! You look completely harmless, but when you attack—you're like a fucking dagger! Like a rose covered in thorns!"
His enthusiasm made me want to roll my eyes. Children and their metaphors.
"You haven't seen me attack yet," I said flatly. "That was just dismantling their psychological defenses."
Julian snatched a flute of champagne from a passing server's tray, downing it in one ambitious gulp. The server's eyebrows shot up in alarm, but he continued moving through the crowd after a pointed look from me.
"But according to what you said, they won't make a move during the actual gala, right?" Julian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking slightly more relaxed. Amateur hour continued.
I allowed myself a thin smile. "Oh, there are plenty of ways to eliminate someone without causing a scene." I gestured lazily toward his now-empty glass. "Like poison, for instance."
The crystal flute slipped from his fingers, shattering against the marble floor with a musical crash that turned nearby heads. Julian's face drained of color so quickly I almost laughed.
"Relax," I said, already bored with his panic. "If they wanted to poison you, you'd already be convulsing."
"You're saying they wouldn't use such low methods?" His voice was hopeful, practically trembling with desperation for reassurance.
"No, I'm saying when it comes to avenging a dead wife, merely poisoning you would be unsatisfying." I met his eyes, letting my voice drop to a colder register. "They'd want to see your face as you beg and struggle."
Julian's knees visibly trembled. Good. Fear would keep him alert. I grabbed his arm and guided him toward our assigned table.
"Come on. The real show is about to start."
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The gala settled into the practiced rhythm of high-society events: fake laughter, strategic conversations, and the soft orchestral soundtrack of wealth. I monitored the room while Julian fidgeted beside me, tugging at his collar every thirty seconds like clockwork.
Then the atmosphere shifted. The music faded, conversations halted mid-sentence, and a ripple of tension spread through the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen," announced a suited staff member from the main staircase, "please welcome our host, Mr. Victor Monroe."
The crowd erupted in applause that carried all the authenticity of a three-dollar bill. Julian shrank in his seat, trying to make himself smaller.
Victor Monroe descended the staircase with practiced grace—a stocky man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and the smooth confidence of someone who had ordered countless deaths without losing sleep. His smile reached his eyes in the way only truly dangerous men can manage.
"My esteemed guests," Victor's voice carried across the room without effort, rich with the gravelly texture of authority, "I'm honored you've all graced my humble home tonight."
I assessed him clinically. Perfectly tailored suit covering a body that hadn't gone soft with age. Shoulders suggesting regular exercise. Eyes that continuously scanned the room even while appearing focused on individuals. This was no pampered crime boss—this was a predator wearing custom Italian wool.
"I see representatives from all our allied organizations," Victor continued, his tone deceptively warm yet underlaid with steel, "but I'm curious—did our friends from the Crimson Brotherhood decide to decline my invitation?"
Julian's face darkened. "We're fucked," he whispered harshly, panic threading through each syllable. "Raven, let's go. We can pretend we're hitting the restroom and just bolt."
I kept my eyes on Victor, not even dignifying Julian's panic with a glance. "You forget why your father sent you here in the first place," I said, voice silky with deadly composure. "To show that Crimson doesn't cower before the Obsidian Triad. To maintain face in front of every other organization in this room."
"The moment you walk out that door is the moment you become nothing but Warlock's disappointing son. Power isn't about having the biggest gun—it's about making everyone believe you do." My lips curved into a cold smile. "Unless, of course, you prefer the turtle approach? I hear shells make excellent coffins."
Julian's mouth tightened, but he remained silent, his gaze fixed on his empty plate.
Victor's smile widened as the silence stretched. "Perhaps Warlock overestimates my hospitality. Or underestimates my capacity for forgiveness. A pity—"
I brought my heel down on Julian's foot with surgical precision, grinding against the sensitive bones on the top of his foot.
"AHHH!" Julian yelped, shooting to his feet in pain and surprise. Every head in the banquet hall swiveled toward us.
I rose smoothly beside him, placing a steadying hand on his arm that simultaneously prevented him from sitting back down. "Julian Kingsley, son of Warlock, is honored to attend your celebration, Mr. Monroe," I announced with perfect clarity, my voice carrying the confidence of someone who belonged in any room. "He extends his father's congratulations."
Julian's face contorted between pain and panic before settling on a grimace that might pass for a smile to the severely myopic. The room fell into stunned silence.
Victor froze momentarily, genuine surprise flickering across his features before the mask of affability returned. He recovered with a slow clap that echoed in the quiet room.
"Well, well. Young Mr. Kingsley. How... brave of you to join us." His smile sharpened to a predatory edge. "Such a promising young man, representing his father at my little gathering." He raised his glass, eyes never leaving Julian's face. "To youth and its... remarkable courage."