Craving the Mafia Prince

Chapter Three | Red Accord

"Five million." My attention shifted to Randy Dalary, whose face was as ugly as the soul that hid behind it. He had been the clan's arms dealer for as long as I can remember. But right now, he was testing the limits of our relationship with a demand that bordered extortion.

"I want cash," Randy added, his voice as grating as ever.

"That's absurd," I countered, masking the anger that was surfacing, just as the waiter arrived with another dish for me to taste ahead of the restaurant's inauguration this evening, the latest addition to my family's empire. The aroma of truffle oil filled the air as he placed a plate of seared scallops in front of me. The contrast between the elegance of my surroundings and the brutal business at hand couldn't have been more obvious.

Randy's threat hung between us, unspoken but clear—if I didn't meet his price, the weapons that should have fortified the Maxwell clan's dominance would instead find their way into the hands of our enemies. It was a dangerous game, one that Randy seemed all too eager to play.

This was a test. A test of my ability to take over the syndicate, the delicate balance of power my father had spent decades maintaining. Over the years, I had learnt the ways of the brutal world I was born into; where power was won and lost in the blink of an eye.

"The price is non-negotiable, Conrad," Randy said, his tone dripping with condescension as he addressed me by name. The audacity of it was striking. He was making it clear that he no longer answered to me, that he had already made his decision to leave the clan behind. His defiance was a death sentence, one he seemed oblivious to. By turning his back on us, he had forfeited any loyalty we owed him. For the first time, I no longer saw a reason not to empty a magazine into his thick skull. Randy had betrayed the clan—worse, he had insulted my father's legacy.

"I can take my business elsewhere. And believe me, there are plenty of others who would jump at the chance to get their hands on what I'm offering." He continued with a sly smirk playing on his chapped lips.

I picked up my fork, slicing into the scallops with deliberate precision, never breaking eye contact. The flavors burst in my mouth as I savored the delicate balance of the dish. It would be perfect for an appetizer, a small taste of the decadence that awaited our guests tonight.

I set the fork down gently, wiping my mouth with a linen napkin before leaning forward slightly. "Let me make this clear, Randy," I began, my voice steady, cutting through the tension like a knife. "You've been useful to us for a long time, and my father has given you more business than you deserve. But don't mistake that for dependency."

"You have until tonight," I said, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms, signaling that our conversation was over. "Deliver the weapons, or don't bother showing your face again. But know this, Randy—cross me, and you'll wish you had taken that five million and run."

Randy's smirk faltered, just for a moment, and I knew I had him. The flicker of doubt in his eyes was all I needed to see. He was a man who thrived on fear and intimidation, but now he was confronted with the reality that he had overplayed his hand.