The Royal estate stood under a pale moon, its towering walls glowing like ivory. Guards patrolled with sharp eyes and loaded rifles, their boots echoing in the vast courtyards. From the outside, it looked like a fortress. From the inside, it felt like a cage.

Four days had passed since Allen’s funeral, and the city was still trembling. The attack on Owen’s convoy had sent shockwaves through every level of power. Politicians whispered of weakness, journalists spun fear into headlines, and rival families sharpened their knives. The once-mythic name “Royal” was being questioned for the first time in decades.

The Zeke family and the Ronald syndicate were circling like vultures. Kai Zeke, the smuggling king, and Rods Ronald, the casino emperor, had already met in private. What they discussed, no one knew—but Owen suspected enough to keep it secret, even from his father. Information was a weapon, and he was learning to wield it.

But tonight, Owen’s mission was different.

The “Velvet Lantern” was the kind of place people whispered about but never admitted visiting. Its plain brick exterior hid a lavish world of crimson velvet, golden chandeliers, and perfumed halls. Behind its silk curtains, power was brokered, empires were shaped, and lives were bought like wine from a menu.

Owen entered through the back, escorted by John, who moved with his usual predator’s calm, his coat concealing more steel than fabric. The smell of incense and champagne hung heavy in the air. Music drifted softly through the corridors, blending with muffled laughter and the occasional sound of pleasure from behind closed doors. It was a perfect place to disappear.

At the top floor, in a dimly lit private lounge, sat Lesley Royale.

Owen froze for half a second. His grandfather’s presence was overwhelming. Even seated, Lesley radiated a quiet menace, the kind that came from decades of power rather than muscle. His silver hair glinted in the low light, his posture regal, his tailored black suit so sharp it looked like armor. This was a man who had united twelve vigilante families under one council and ruled them with an iron will. His enemies didn’t fear his weapons; they feared his mind.

Beside him sat Benjamin Royale, Owen’s uncle. Ben was all polish and intellect, a gentleman with soft manners that hid razor-sharp instincts. He was a master of political influence—charming senators, dismantling opponents with a smile, and pulling strings behind curtains others didn’t even know existed.

Together, they were a storm in still water.

Owen stepped forward, his small hands carrying the folded note from his mother.

“She asked me to bring this,” Owen said, his voice steady.

Lesley’s cold eyes softened slightly. “Your mother… she was always strong.” He took the note carefully, his voice gravelly but firm. “Like her son.”

Ben leaned forward, studying Owen. “You’re carrying messages now? Dangerous work for someone so young.”

“I’m old enough,” Owen replied calmly, the words slipping out like ice.

Ben smirked. “He has the Royal blood, Uncle. Look at him—he doesn’t flinch.”

Lesley’s lips curled faintly. “Good.”

The conversation turned heavy. In that smoke-filled room, Owen was no longer a child. He sat between two men who had the power to topple governments, yet they spoke to him as if he were already one of them.

“I saw the papers this morning,” Ben said, tapping a finger on the mahogany table. “Curious how fast the convoy attack reached the headlines. Even the pictures.”

Lesley’s cold gaze slid to Owen.

“Curious,” he murmured. “Very curious.”

Owen met his gaze. “I told them.”

Ben raised an eyebrow.

“I gave the press everything,” Owen said softly. “Because if we tell them first, they stop asking questions.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Lesley leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Smart,” he said finally. “You’ve learned early that the story belongs to whoever speaks first.”

Ben chuckled, low and impressed. “He’s sharper than half the men on the council.”

Lesley leaned forward, his eyes dark and calculating. “Then remember this, boy. Power isn’t just in guns and guards. Power is in whispers. It’s in fear. And it’s in the silence of those too afraid to challenge you.”

Owen’s expression didn’t waver.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

Lesley nodded slowly. “Good. Then don’t stop. Let them underestimate you. Let them think you’re just a boy. Shadows are the deadliest weapon of all.”

Outside the brothel’s private lounge, life carried on as usual. Courtesans laughed, glasses clinked, and perfume masked the stench of blood and power. No one noticed the small boy leaving the building, escorted by a silent giant in a coat.

As the car door closed behind Owen, John glanced at him. “You look like you just met a ghost.”

Owen’s voice was quiet. “No. I met the man who makes ghosts.”

John chuckled darkly, lighting a cigarette.

From a window above, Lesley watched them leave, his expression unreadable. He had seen warlords rise and empires fall, and tonight, he had seen something far rarer: a boy who did not tremble.

Somewhere beneath the city, cloaked figures of the Order sat around a candlelit table, murmuring Owen’s name like a warning.

And in a distant study, Thomas Royal stared at a half-empty glass of whiskey, unaware that his son’s path had already diverged from his own.

The boy wasn’t breaking.
He was becoming something far more dangerous.

Chapter 4 End