Chapter 6 The Gala

• Horace took her hand, kissed it lightly, and offered a smile that was more blade than warmth. “The family appreciates your thoughts.”
• He moved through the crowd, each step measured, each glance commanding. Men in tailored suits approached him; their words rehearsed condolences, their eyes calculating. Horace knew their type—opportunists sniffing out where the real power now lay.
• “Such a tragedy,” one of them muttered, his hand clapping Horace’s shoulder in mock familiarity. “Gas explosions… who would have thought?”
• Horace’s laugh was smooth, practiced. “Yes… who would have thought?”
• They laughed with him, hollow and sharp, as though testing the edges of his mood. Beneath the surface, Horace could feel it: the shift. Where once their respect was funneled toward his brother, tonight their eyes lingered on him, waiting, measuring.
• Now they see, he thought, sipping fresh scotch handed to him by a waiter. Now they understand who the head of this family truly is.
• But not all looks were so welcoming. Across the hall, an older syndicate boss watched him with narrowed eyes, his lips pressed thin. Horace caught the stare, held it, and tilted his glass in a mocking salute. The old man didn’t return it or look away. He started moving towards Horace, his glass of wine trembling faintly in his hand.
• “Horace,” the boss said, his tone polite but stiff. “I must… extend my sympathies. Your brother was a man of honor. A reliable partner. His absence will be felt.”
• Horace smiled thinly, letting the words hang in the air like smoke. Reliable partner. Honor. The same reasons you chose him over me.
• “Felt, yes,” Horace replied smoothly, leaning in just close enough to unsettle the man. “But not missed. Weak men never last long in our world, you know this. My brother didn’t have the stomach for the business. You all mistook his hesitation for honesty, his softness for reliability.”
• The boss’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “He honored his word.”
• “And what did that earn him?” Horace’s smile widened, venom hidden under silk. “A coffin. Tell me, old friend, when the profits dry up, when the shipments stall, will you keep honoring the dead? Or will you crawl to the living?”
• The man flinched at the word crawl, his gaze breaking for a moment. That was enough for Horace. He patted the man’s shoulder like a father indulging a child.
• “Think carefully who you align with,” Horace whispered. “Trust is a luxury. Strength is survival. I am strength.”
• The boss excused himself quickly, his steps uneven as he retreated into the crowd. Horace watched him go with smug satisfaction, swirling the scotch in his glass. They’ll all come crawling. Every last one of them.
• But the satisfaction soured as his eyes drifted to the far corner of the hall. A hulking figure stood there, half in shadow, his presence alone enough to silence the chatter in his circle. Dimitri Klavitz. The Russian-American drug lord. The man Horace owed a fortune he had borrowed to build his empire and would not want to mess with.
• Their gazes locked, and for a moment, Horace considered pretending he hadn’t seen him. But Dimitri’s slow, deliberate smirk said otherwise. Refusal wasn’t an option.
• Reluctantly, Horace crossed the floor, each step a negotiation between pride and necessity. Dimitri didn’t move, didn’t smile, only let his icy eyes travel over Horace as though measuring a debt written on his skin.
• “Horace,” Dimitri rumbled, his accent heavy, his voice like gravel dragged over steel. “Your brother’s death makes headlines. You stand here laughing, drinking. Yet my men tell me my money is still missing.”
• The words cut through the noise of the gala, though Dimitri hadn’t raised his voice. Horace stiffened, forcing a smirk to cover the heat rising in his chest.
• “Business takes time. You’ll have what’s yours.”
• “When?”
• “Soon.”
• “Soon.” Klavitz chuckled without mirth, swirling his drink. “You say this word often. Time is luxury, McDormick. My patience is not. You think killing family makes you powerful? Hmm?” Forgive me, Horace, but in my country, soon without action means weakness. And weakness…” He let the pause linger, his gaze sharp. “…is what men like me eat for breakfast.”
• Horace’s jaw clenched, his grip on the glass tightening until he thought it might shatter. He hated being threatened, loathed it more than anything. His pride screamed to lash out, to remind Dimitri who he was. But for now, the Russian’s shadow loomed larger.
• He forced a chuckle, masking the fire in his gut. “Careful, Dimitri. Threats are easy. Delivering on them… not so much.”
• Dimitri’s smirk never wavered. “Then pay what you owe. Or next time, I won’t speak first.”
• The threat coiled in the air between them. Horace smiled thinly, though the weight in his stare pressed like a blade.
• The two men locked eyes: Klavitz’s cold amusement against Horace’s simmering disdain. Then Klavitz raised his glass, breaking the tension with a mocking toast.
• “To patience,” he said.
• Horace clinked his glass without flinching, though his mind burned with the insult. He didn’t like being threatened.
• The drug lord brushed past him, leaving Horace in the glittering hall with his smile stretched thin, rage burning beneath. He lifted his glass and swallowed hard, the scotch doing nothing to cool the fire.
• One day, he vowed silently, his eyes narrowing on Dimitri’s retreating back. One day, I’ll wipe that smirk off your face. Nobody threatens a McDormick and walks away whole.
• Horace slipped away from the gala floor under the excuse of a phone call, his guards flanking him down a quiet corridor until they reached a side lounge reserved for privacy. The moment the door closed, his polished mask shattered.
• “Arrogant bastard,” Horace tore the glass from his hand and hurled it against the wall. It shattered, spraying shards across the floor. His voice was raw with fury. “Threatening me. In front of everyone.”
• His chest heaved once before he slammed his fist into the plaster: once, twice. The skin split across his knuckles. “No one threatens me,” He spat.
• The guards kept still, eyes lowered, trained to let him bleed his rage. But the storm only thickened.
• He grabbed a decanter from the bar and smashed it against the counter. Whiskey spread like blood over the glass. His guards stiffened but stayed silent.
• His breaths were ragged, the vein in his temple throbbing.
• Then his gaze locked on one man, the assassin he struck earlier for hitting Nina, standing stiff, left eye still bloodshot from the punch, sweat already beading at his temple. Horace’s lips pulled back in a snarl.
• “You.”
• The guard swallowed hard.
• “You’re the reason I’m in this mess.” Horace’s tone was low, venomous. He advanced, each step heavy. “That girl was to be delivered tonight. My promise to Dimitri. And you…” He jabbed a bloodied finger into the man’s chest, “…you damaged her. You ruined everything.”
• The guard stiffened.
• Horace’s hand flashed, striking him across the face. Before the man could stagger backwards, Horace’s hand gripped his shirt while his other hand reached for the man’s holster and pulled out his gun. He barreled it to the man’s forehead and obviously used the highest restraint power to keep himself from pulling the trigger.