Chapter 2 - THE SECOND DISHBefore the echo of Arthur’s words could fade against the vaulted ceiling, the heavy oak doors at the far end of the dining hall clicked open.
Four armed guards stepped inside, their weapons raised.
They weren’t Mason’s men.
They wore unmarked tactical gear, their faces hidden behind black ballistic masks.
They moved with the synchronized precision of elite mercenaries.
Arthur didn’t even look back at them.
He simply picked up his napkin, dabbed the corner of his mouth, and smiled.
“Did you really think I walked into this house alone, Mason?” Arthur asked softly, his voice dripping with a terrifying mixture of pity and contempt. “You built an empire on loyalty, but loyalty is just a commodity with a expiration date. I bought the guards at your gate three weeks ago. The same day I had that little tailor drop off the thread.”
Mason didn’t reach for his gun.
He didn’t call out for Jack.
He just sat there, watching the four mercenaries fan out behind Arthur’s chair, their rifle barrels leveling at his chest.
“You built me, Arthur,” Mason said, his tone disturbingly calm. “You taught me that sentimentality is a bullet between your own eyes.”
“Then why look so surprised?” Arthur sighed, standing up and smoothing his jacket. “You were getting soft, Mason. You started listening to lawyers instead of instincts. You wanted to legitimize the shipping lanes. You wanted to stop the importation of the very things that made us rich. You became a liability to the syndicate. And a liability must be excised.”
Arthur motioned to the lead mercenary.
“Finish it. Make it look like the infection finally reached his heart.”
The mercenary stepped forward, his finger curling around the trigger of a silenced carbine.
Mason tilted his head.
“You forgot to check the kitchen ledger, Arthur.”
Arthur paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “What?”
“The girl you framed,” Mason said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Emily. You thought she was just a broke orphan with a dead mother’s debt. You didn't check who her father was.”
Arthur’s face went chalk-white.
“Her father... died in the dock explosion twenty years ago.”
“No,” Mason corrected, his eyes locking onto Arthur’s frozen pupils. “He didn't die. He survived. With half a face and a very long memory of the man who planted the bomb that blew his shift sky-high to cover up a missing million dollars from the syndicate’s first ledger.”
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Arthur staggered back a half-step, his mouth opening, but no sound came out.
And from the shadows of the butler’s pantry behind the mercenaries, a heavy iron meat cleaver whistled through the air.
