Chapter 8 - The Public Humiliation
CRASH.
The grand mahogany doors of the VIP room were violently kicked open. A dozen heavily armed FBI agents swarmed into the room, their tactical flashlights cutting through the warm candlelight.
"FBI! Nobody move!" the lead agent roared.
Grant didn't try to run. He couldn't. His legs had completely given out from sheer, unadulterated terror. He lay on the floor in his unbuttoned black shirt, weeping hysterically as three agents aggressively hauled him to his feet and slammed heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists.
"Grant Maddox, you are under arrest for racketeering, grand larceny, and the murder of Arthur Sterling," the agent announced loudly.
They didn't escort him out through a quiet back door.
They dragged the screaming, thrashing mafia boss directly through the main dining room. Hundreds of the city's most elite, wealthy socialites and corrupt politicians—people who used to bow to Grant out of fear—now watched in absolute, breathless shock as the "untouchable king" was publicly paraded in handcuffs, his face covered in tears and snot.
His toxic, violent legacy was permanently, entirely swallowed into ruin.
I stood quietly in the VIP room, listening to his pathetic cries fade into the back of a police cruiser outside.
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The chaotic, violent energy of the last five years completely evaporated from my chest. My heart, which had been beating in overdrive since the day my father died, finally settled into a calm, steady rhythm.
👉 I was entirely alone in the luxury room, and it was finally time to shed the disguise I had worn for eight months.
