The Mafia Empire

The prolonged silence made Heidler frown slightly. He wasn't sure if he had been unclear, if this brilliant young man hadn't understood his intentions, or if he was deliberately playing dumb to avoid the matter. Either way, it wasn't to Heidler's liking; the former suggested that Julian was clever but lacked political maturity, while the latter…

That would be too frightening!

"This is an invitation to a charity gala the evening after tomorrow. I hope you'll attend. It's time for you to make a public appearance and show who you are." Heidler wasn't giving up and handed Julian an invitation.

Charity galas were interesting events: a gathering of wealthy businessmen and politicians, shedding fake tears for the social underclass, whom they exploit to the point of poverty. They donate to the poor and then turn around and exploit them again, all while gaining a good reputation and political clout. Truly masterful.

The invitation seat was right beside Heidler's, meaning that if Julian attended, there would be no way to avoid the association between them, regardless of any explanation he might offer later. They were both Guar, the invitation came from Heidler, and they would be seated together.

Julian knew he'd rejected Heidler twice already, which was enough. Another refusal could bring unforeseen trouble. After a brief thought, he slipped the invitation into his pocket.

Heidler exhaled, taking a sip of tea. "I know you're busy with your affairs. Thank you for coming today."

Julian stood up at the right moment, bowed slightly, and took his leave.

Although Heidler was a relatively weak member of the main chamber of commerce, he was still stronger than Julian. Until he had enough power, Julian didn't intend to create any overt conflict with Heidler.

Watching Julian's composed figure retreat, Heidler sat in his chair, lost in thought.

Outside, Lamas and the car were already waiting for Julian. He walked over but didn't get in immediately, instead lowering his head to look at his shoes. They were not particularly expensive dress shoes, but Julian preferred them to boots. The shoes were clean, at least for now, but after inspecting them for a while, he finally spoke.

"My shoes are dirty."

A flush of blood crept over Lamas's clean-shaven face. Clenching his teeth, he pulled a white handkerchief from his breast pocket, opened it with a flick, and prepared to kneel to clean Julian's shoes. But Julian stopped him.

Looking down with a slight bow, Julian's face against the sky and sun in the background, he pressed a hand on Lamas's shoulder and smiled. "This won't end so simply."

The instructions Lamas gave him on his first visit had irritated Julian, but not to an unbearable degree. Julian understood that big shots had their quirks, and as a small player, he had no choice but to comply.

However, when Lamas wiped the seat with his handkerchief and then discarded it, that was a real insult to his dignity. That was something Julian couldn't forgive, and he'd remember it for a lifetime.

As Julian had said, it wouldn't end that easily. If kneeling to clean someone's shoes could erase all enmity, what would be the point of police, judges, and lawyers?

Meanwhile, just two streets away, Mrs. Vivian was clutching her cheek, staring in disbelief at her husband, who had never shown such anger.

"Wretch!" The mayor, usually calm and composed, was now like a wounded bull, kicking Mrs. Vivian in the stomach. His eyes were bloodshot, his breathing heavy, and his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing his hairy forearms.

"Who is he?" The mayor rolled up his sleeves, looking far from the refined demeanor of an elite. He paced back and forth, occasionally glancing at Mrs. Vivian, who sat silently on the edge of the bed. If not for the servant telling him today that her sanitary cloths hadn't been used, he would never have known!

Sanitary cloths are long strips of pure cotton filled with absorbent material, used by women during their menstrual period. Poor people use simpler versions—just cloth strips that can be washed, dried, and reused. But for a family of the mayor's standing, these are disposable items, and each month, new ones are delivered by the servants.

However, this time, the maid found last month's sanitary cloths still neatly in the drawer. She knew that Mrs. Vivian was possibly pregnant and excitedly shared the news with the housekeeper. The servants had been somewhat worried; given the mayor and Mrs. Vivian's age, they still had no children. For them, this was an unsettling situation, as it meant one of them was unable to fulfill the family's need for an heir, a potential disaster for the family legacy.

If their employers grew too old to have children, the servants would consider seeking employment elsewhere rather than "hanging themselves on a single tree," waiting until the old master died and the family reclaimed their assets, leaving the servants dismissed.

So, Mrs. Vivian's pregnancy was a joyful event for all the household staff.

But the problem was… the child in Mrs. Vivian's womb was not the mayor's.

When the housekeeper, with a beaming smile, delivered this happy news and congratulations to Peter, this was the result.

Peter's cold gaze held a seething anger. He knew Mrs. Vivian had dalliances with young men, but he didn't care much. From the moment he met her, his goal wasn't love but interest. He tolerated her affairs and could even overlook her trysts outside; these were the consequences of the deception he had inflicted upon her.

Likewise, he himself had several mistresses and even suspected that he was the one unable to conceive an heir. This only made him more lenient with her, but there was one line—Mrs. Vivian was not to form any emotional attachments, and under no circumstances was she to get pregnant. This was something he couldn't tolerate and would never forgive.

He placed one hand on his golden belt buckle, unfastened it, and slowly pulled the belt from his waist, wrapping it around his arm so that a length of it hung free. Despite his near-madness, he retained a basic sense of control.

He knew he couldn't injure Mrs. Vivian too severely, let alone kill her. No matter how many years the old man lying on the bed could live, as long as he was alive, the mayor had to bow to his power.