Chapter 397
The bass from Velvet Lounge's speakers thrummed through the walls, but inside the opulent private suite, the silence was so thick you could hear a pin drop.
Julian Montgomery lounged in a tailored black suit, the top buttons of his silk shirt undone just enough to reveal the glint of a silver chain against his toned chest. A crystal glass of Bordeaux dangled from his fingers as he crossed his legs, the picture of effortless dominance.
A crimson droplet trailed from the corner of his lips. He caught it with his thumb, smearing it like war paint. His smirk was careless, but his eyes—sharp as shattered glass—warned everyone to keep their distance.
His security detail stood rigid along the walls, statues in designer suits.
Julian drained his wine in one smooth motion before snapping his fingers.
The guards parted like curtains.
A bound man collapsed at Julian’s feet, face swollen beyond recognition, blood and spit dribbling from his split lips.
"Mr. Montgomery—please—mercy—" The words slurred through broken teeth.
Julian tilted his head, feigning sympathy. "Tsk. You’re ruining the rug." He flicked his wrist dismissively. "Do you have any idea what this Persian costs? Not even your black-market kidneys could cover it."
The man scrambled forward, groveling. Julian lifted a polished shoe and shoved him back with a bored sigh.
"Mr. Montgomery, I—I was loyal! Damian Whitmore forced me! He threatened my family! All I did was report your schedule—"
Damian Whitmore. Julian’s uncle. His father’s beloved younger brother.
At seven, Julian had watched his father’s casket lower into the ground. The "accident" had left his mother a widow, his sister Isabelle too young to understand the viper’s nest they’d inherited.
But Julian knew.
His grandfather, Archibald Montgomery, still held the family reins, but Damian had slithered into the CEO seat meant for Julian’s father. The same uncle who’d wept the hardest at the funeral—only to poison every boardroom against Julian since.
His mother and Isabelle remained oblivious. Even his closest friend, Nathan Blackwood, had no idea of the knives Julian dodged daily.
"Pathetic." Julian’s chuckle was ice. "You think playing both sides makes you clever? Money’s useless if you’re not breathing to spend it."
The wine glass shattered against the floor.
The man flinched as if it were his bones breaking.
"I don’t mind rats," Julian mused, leaning forward. Shadows carved his features into something monstrous. "Every king has them. But you? You got greedy. Slip up again, and I’ll mail your tongue to Damian myself."
The man’s bladder gave out.
Julian’s smile vanished. "Natalia."
His secretary emerged from the shadows, a blade glinting in her manicured hand.
The man’s screams were cut short.
Julian stood, straightening his cuffs. "Gift-wrap it. Let’s see if Uncle Damian has the stomach for his favorite pâté."
———
Across the club, Isabelle Montgomery smirked as surveillance feeds flooded the room’s massive screen.
Eleanor Blackwood darted through the crowd below—a frightened doe in a den of wolves.
Isabelle sipped her champagne. "Now this is entertainment."