Leg crossed over the other, Arthav sat lazily against the cream-leather seat of his black Bentley Mulsanne while his PA, Leon, scrolled through the tablet beside him.
“We got summoned by the Syndicate, sir,” Leon said carefully while adjusting his glasses.
“They want a meeting tonight regarding yesterday’s incident.”
Arthav’s gaze remained fixed outside the tinted window.
“Hm.”
“You attacked one of the council’s routes without permission.”
“And?”
The PA hesitated briefly.
“You broke their rules.”
A faint smirk tugged at Arthav’s lips.
“Since when did I start following their rules?”
“They can throw you out from the syndicate, sir.”
At that, Arthav finally looked at him.
His eyes turned ice.
“Syndicate is built by Advanis,” Arthav said quietly.
“Don’t forget that.”
The car fell silent for a moment.
Outside, the city moved beneath the pale morning haze while the engine hummed quietly beneath them.
“The council is furious,” Leon continued cautiously.
“Especially Viktor.”
“Then Viktor should learn how to stay furious quietly.”
Leon cleared his throat awkwardly and looked back at the tablet.
“There’s another issue.”
“Speak.”
“The warehouse fire from yesterday.” He scrolled further down.
“The Syndicate lost nearly twenty million dollars’ worth of shipment.”
Arthav leaned his head back lazily against the seat.
“And?”
“Did the fire start after the party?”
Leon nodded.
“They believe it was intentional.”
A low chuckle escaped Arthav.
“It was,” Arthav said coldly.
“Who else could it be? That motherfucker.”
Leon froze for half a second before lowering his voice.
“Sir… that shipment belonged to the eastern council. If they decide to retaliate—”
“They won’t.”
“And if they do?”
Arthav slowly turned his face toward him.
“Then I’ll burn the rest too.”
Leon spoke carefully again in a lower voice.
“People are whispering.”
Arthav’s expression didn’t change.
“What?”
“That you are getting sick like your father.”
Arthav’s gaze darkened slightly.
The air inside the Bently became suffocatingly still.
He looked at the driver and commanded.
“Pull over.”
The driver nodded once and pulled the car over to the side of the road in front of an empty field.
He pushed the car door open and got his feet out on the ground; he burned a cigarette and just held it in his hand.
“People talk too much,” he muttered.
Then took a puff
“They’re scared, sir. That you will also start the war like your father did with Santelvo,”
He smiled faintly and took another slow puff from the cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath his expensive black Louboutins.
“Good,” he said quietly.
“Fear keeps people obedient.”
Leon swallowed hard, adjusting his glasses.
“Should I cancel tonight’s sir meeting?”
“No.”
“Let them gather.” “I’m curious to see who suddenly found the courage to question me.”
***
On the long metallic table, all thirteen members and eight council members of the syndicate gathered and sat beside each other on the iron chairs with huge headrests.
All the members murmured about something to each other in a low voice.
As soon as Arthav walked through the huge wooden door of the syndicate council meeting room, the distant chattering muted.
Arthav sat beside Mamusa, whose chair stood slightly higher than the others, its carved headrest rising behind him like a throne.
The old man carried a long scar stretching from his chin down to his throat, while dark circles rested heavily beneath his eyes, making him appear far more menacing beneath the dim light.
Mamusa was the oldest member of the syndicate, and after Arthav’s father’s death, he took Ahiraj’s place, and just because of him, this syndicate still sticks together and works smoothly without any war.
All the rules set by him and the rest of the members were followed.
On the opposite side of the table, Damian sat with his bruised chin, and his face was full with rage.
Arthav’s gaze turned icy.
“I have made this rule after your father’s madness. He hit the member and started a war with Santelvo.”
“You broke a rule, Arthav,” Mamusa said in his deeply manipulative voice.
“You hit a council member with a room full of witnesses.”
Mamusa took a slow sip from the glass before him, his scarred face unreadable beneath the dim light.
“How do you explain this?” he asked coldly.
Arthav let out a quiet chuckle.
“I’m not denying it,” he said lazily.
“I hit him.”
Then his gaze slowly shifted toward Damian.
“And I don’t regret it either.” His eyes darkened faintly.
“If he crosses his line again…” Arthav leaned back against the chair.
“Next time, I rip his head off.”
“He broke the rule,” Danian barked.
“And according to that, you need to throw him out.”
“Calm down, Damian,” Mamusa said quietly.
Mamusa asked, looking at Arthav.
His face pulled with a strange fascination to know the reason why he hit him.
As if he truly wished to know what had pushed Arthav that far.
“Tell me,” Mamusa continued quietly.
“What reason made you risk all this?”
“He crossed a line that should never have been crossed,” Arthav replied, his voice cold and steady.
“The punch was mercy.”
His jaw tightened.
“He dragged my wife into a matter that didn’t concern her. The fact that he’s sitting here breathing should tell you how much restraint I showed.”
Mamusa slowly nodded his head before exhaling deeply.
“Then this matter is already settled.”
He turned his gaze toward Damian.
“We do not drag women into personal rivalries.”
Damian frowned as the satisfactory result didn’t deliver as he expected.
He stood up from his chair.
“What?” Damian snapped in anger.
“That’s it.”
Mamusa lifted his shoulder in a calm shrug.
“You crossed the line,” he said bluntly.
“And he merely put you back in your senses.”
Mamusa took another sip from his glass.
“I see nothing wrong in what he did.”
“Oh, so you see nothing wrong in that?” Damian laughed bitterly.
“Then I also see nothing wrong in calling a whore a whore—”
Before he could finish—
Arthav suddenly grabbed the whiskey glass resting in front of him and hurled it straight toward Damian.
Crash.
The glass hit straight into Damian’s forehead; blood trickled down instantly from his forehead and fell on the side of his face.
The meeting room erupted into chaos; members stood up from their seats.
And Mamusa’s eyes widened with shock and fear; he looked at Aarthav, who looked like a completely different person.
His eyes went dark, and his chest was rising and falling violently like a wild beast.
Arthav jumped on the table, sliding across its surface, and grabbed Damian’s collar; they both fell onto the ground.
Arthav made a fist and shot a punch to his face.
Arthav made another attempt to hit Damian again, but this time he grabbed Arthav’s wrist and cursed before twisting him over violently.
Then he drove a sharp punch directly across Arthav’s jaw.
Blood filled Arthav’s mouth instantly.
But before Damian could react again—
Arthav slammed his forehead straight into Damian’s face.
“Aah—!”
Mamusa watched them coldly for a second; he narrowed his eyes and smirked.
For him, he found the scene interesting; it looked like the fight was going on between the panther and a ferret cat.
Damian lurched his head backward; he touched his nose, and a thin line of blood seeped out from his nose.
“You fucking bastard,” he snarled.
His eyes burned with rage and pure hatred as he lunged at Arthav.