His Trusted Adviser Tried to Steal His Empire — Until the Little Girl Pointed at the Silver Star

The cinematic realism of the terrifying, suffocating tension completely electrified the bright, luxurious library.

A medium shot captured Julian, Gabriel’s fifty-something senior adviser. The man was standing near the polished grand piano in a razor-sharp, expensive tailored suit. For the last five years, Julian had been Gabriel's absolute right-hand man, the trusted mentor who had heroically guided the syndicate after a catastrophic tragedy almost destroyed Gabriel's life.

But the exact second the little girl uttered the words "silver star," Julian completely froze.

He didn't move a single muscle, but his natural micro-expressions betrayed absolute, unadulterated terror. All the color violently, aggressively drained from his powdered face, leaving him looking like a terrified ghost. His hands began to visibly tremble against the edge of the grand piano as profound, apocalyptic panic actively destroyed his mind.

A tight close-up captured Gabriel.

The terrifying apex predator didn't look at Julian yet. He slowly raised his large, tattooed hand and reached toward the back of his own neck. He pressed his thick fingers against the jagged, heavy scar tissue.

His eyes widened slightly, instantly narrowing with a dark, incredibly dangerous realization.

To understand the absolute, bone-chilling horror freezing the blood in Gabriel's veins, one had to look back exactly five years. Gabriel had supposedly survived a massive, devastating car bombing that tragically killed his beautiful wife. He had woken up in a private hospital with severe amnesia, severe nerve damage, and this heavy scar on his neck. Julian had sworn it was an assassination attempt by a rival cartel, and that the scar was from a piece of metal shrapnel they couldn't safely remove.

But as Gabriel traced the "shrapnel" with his fingertip, his blood ran completely cold.