Chapter 4 - A King's Claim
Word of my sudden elevation from mansion cleaner to Declan Walsh’s constant companion spread through Grayhaven’s criminal underworld like wildfire.
To the outside syndicates, I was a mysterious vulnerability—a weakness in the armor of an invincible kingpin.
On a rainy Thursday evening, Declan was required to attend a high-level summit at The Obsidian, an exclusive, underground club owned by the Allied Syndicate Captains. It was a meeting designed to re-establish boundaries following Julian's failed coup.
Declan insisted I accompany him.
I wore a floor-length, backless emerald green silk dress that Declan had personally selected for me. A thin silver choker rested against my throat, and my dark hair was swept up in an elegant style.
When we entered the VIP lounge of The Obsidian, conversation died instantly.
Dozens of high-ranking mobsters, corrupt politicians, and cartel representatives turned to stare. Declan walked with a relaxed, lethal grace, his hand resting firmly on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd like a sovereign presenting his queen.
We took our seats at a grand horseshoe table in the center of the private room.
Sitting directly across from us was Riker—my former loan shark.
Riker was a greasy, heavy-set man covered in gold chains, his yellowed eyes narrowing as he took in my appearance. A cruel, arrogant smirk spread across his face.
"Well, well," Riker drawled loudly, leaning back in his chair and flicking his cigar ash onto the carpet. "If it isn't little Nora Vance. I see you found yourself a high-paying gig, sweetheart. Though I must say, Walsh, buying out a girl's debt doesn't change what she is."
The air in the room instantly turned sub-zero.
Carter stepped forward, his hand going to his hip, but Declan raised a single finger, stopping his security chief.
Declan didn't raise his voice. He leaned back in his leather chair, swirling a glass of neat scotch.
"Finish that thought, Riker," Declan said softly. His voice was a calm, low whisper, but it carried a promise of absolute destruction that made the surrounding men visibly uncomfortable.
Riker, foolishly puffed up by the presence of rival captains, laughed sneeringly. "I'm just saying! She was scrubbin' my cousin's tavern floors three weeks ago, begging me for extensions on her dead sister's medical bills! She owes me more than money—she owes me respect. Maybe I should claim a interest payment right here—"
CLINK.
Declan set his glass down on the marble table.
Before anyone could register movement, Declan reached across the wide table, grabbed Riker by his silk tie, and dragged his heavy, greasy frame straight over the wood!
Glasses shattered. Decanters spilled.
THUD!
Declan slammed Riker’s head violently onto the marble tabletop, pinning him down with a heavy hand pressed against the back of his neck.
The room erupted! Riker’s bodyguards reached for their shoulder holsters, but twenty laser sights from Declan’s snipers in the upper rafters instantly painted red dots over every bodyguard's chest.
"Move an inch, and this room becomes a slaughterhouse," Carter barked, his sidearm drawn.
No one moved.
Riker choked and sputtered, his face pressed flat against the cold marble, his yellow eyes wide with sudden, agonizing terror.
Declan leaned down, his face inches from Riker’s ear.
"Nora Vance doesn't owe you respect," Declan whispered, his silver eyes flashing with terrifying fury. "She doesn't owe you a single cent. And if you ever speak her name, look at her, or exist in the same district as her again... I will personally tear your organization apart bone by bone, and feed what's left to the dogs in the harbor. Do you understand me?"
"Yes! Yes! I'm sorry, Walsh! I'm sorry!" Riker screamed frantically, blood dripping from his nose onto the table.
Declan released him like a piece of trash. Riker scrambled backward, falling off his chair, crawling away toward the exit accompanied by his terrified men.
Declan straightened his dark cuffs, smoothed his suit jacket, and turned back to face the silent room of syndicate leaders.
"Nora Vance is under my personal protection," Declan announced, his voice ringing out across the grand lounge with absolute authority. "Any threat to her is a declaration of total war against the Walsh family."
He turned to me, his cold expression softening into something raw, fierce, and deeply intimate. He held out his hand.
"Shall we go home, Nora?" he asked gently.
May you like
I reached out, wrapping my fingers around his warm hand, feeling the powerful pulse in his wrist.
"Yes, Declan," I whispered, holding his gaze before the entire underworld. "Let's go home."
