Chapter 4 – The Gala of Kings
2421 Words
New York City
New York never slept —
But tonight, it bowed.
The Global Power Summit Gala was the one night a year where the world’s richest, most dangerous, and most influential people pretended to coexist peacefully under one roof.
Presidents invited themselves.
Royalty arrived unannounced.
Billionaires hunted alliances.
Oligarchs polished their reputations.
And the press sharpened their knives.
But tonight, none of them was the center of attention.
Tonight belonged to the man the world only whispered about.
The entrance of the Grand Marcellus Hotel looked nothing short of a kingdom built on wealth and blood.
Deep ruby banners hung from balconies like rivers of liquid fire.
Velvet drapes swept across the walls in waves of scarlet.
Golden candelabras glowed warm and lethal.
Crimson glass chandeliers dripped like rubies frozen mid-fall.
The floor — polished obsidian — reflected every flicker of flame.
Every detail was designed to dazzle.
But none of it could prepare the guests for the moment he arrived.
A sea of journalists waited behind velvet ropes, screaming questions at anyone worth a single dollar more than themselves.
Security held the line.
The elite mingled in designer gowns and suits.
Flashes burst like fireworks.
“Prince Alexander! Over here!”
“Mr. Li, look this way!”
“Ms. Rochefort, who designed your dress?”
The crowd was loud.
Chaotic.
Blinding.
Until the lead security guard’s earpiece crackled.
“Peterson inbound.”
One sentence.
That was all it took for the mood to shift.
Reporters straightened.
Security stiffened.
Rivals swallowed.
Allies watched with forced smiles.
It was like someone had pulled a thin thread of tension through the crowd — tightening, tightening, tightening —
And then the lights outside the entrance subtly dimmed.
Not intentionally.
Automatically.
Because the car approaching was so black, so reflective, so predatory that the spotlights struggled to cling to its surface.
A matte-black Maybach.
Tinted windows.
Custom armor plating.
No license details visible.
The kind of car nobody else in the world could get without a signature from three governments.
The crowd sensed it immediately.
“Is that—?”
“No way—”
“He wasn’t supposed to attend—”
“Is it really him?”
“If it’s him, I’m quitting this job tonight.”
Fear.
Anticipation.
Greed.
Awe.
All tangled together.
The Maybach stopped.
The world held its breath.
A single man stepped out first:
Sam Moore.
Tall, lethal, eyes cold as bullet steel.
Kendrick’s right hand.
Kendrick’s shield.
The man whose presence alone could silence half a room.
A reporter tried to shout a question—
Sam didn’t even look at her.
She dropped her mic.
That was the kind of aura he carried.
He gave one short nod to the security team.
“Clear the way. Now.”
They obeyed instantly.
Because Sam didn’t ask.
Sam commanded.
But the crowd wasn’t looking at Sam.
They were waiting for the man behind him.
The door opened again.
And Kendrick Lee Peterson stepped into the red-lit entrance like a shadow made flesh.
The air changed temperature.
The noise collapsed into silence.
Even the photographers forgot to press their shutters.
He didn’t need to do anything.
His presence did the work for him.
He wore a midnight-black suit tailored so sharply it could cut air.
No tie.
The first two buttons of his shirt undone.
A watch that cost more than a mansion.
His hair styled back in a way that highlighted the lethal symmetry of his face.
His eyes—
Cold.
Calculated.
Unreachable.
Black ice with a heartbeat.
He did not smile.
He did not wave.
He did not acknowledge the cameras.
He simply walked.
And the world moved out of his way.
A woman standing closest to him took one look at his expression — a look that said he would burn Rome to the ground if someone irritated him — and she stepped back so fast she hit the velvet rope.
A billionaire whispered, “My God…”
A senator muttered, “That man could topple the entire stock market if he tripped on the carpet.”
A famous actress clutched her chest. “Why does he look illegal?”
Even the security dogs refused to bark.
Every step Kendrick took radiated quiet violence.
Not loud.
Not messy.
Not savage.
But controlled.
Refined.
Precision-calibrated.
The type of danger that didn’t need to show teeth to remind the world it had them.
People didn’t fear him because of what he did.
People feared him because of what he could do.
He had taken down empires without raising his voice.
He had crushed monopolies with a single signature.
He had governments negotiating with him behind closed doors.
He was untouchable.
And tonight — he radiated that truth like a second skin.
When he reached the entrance carpet, the reporters finally remembered how to breathe.
“Mr—Mr. Peterson! Just one photo—!”
Kendrick didn’t look.
Not a glance.
Not a twitch.
Not a breath wasted on them.
He walked past them with an aura that said:
You are beneath my attention.
And even their cameras seemed to shrink from the rejection.
A shocked whisper rippled across the press line:
“He’s darker in person.”
“He’s colder than the rumors.”
“No wonder governments fear him.”
“He’s beautiful—terrifying—but beautiful.”
“I’m going home. I can’t compete with that.”
The velvet carpet beneath his feet absorbed sound.
The crimson lights painted sharp highlights along the edges of his suit.
The chandeliers reflected in his eyes like dying stars.
It wasn’t an entrance.
It was a coronation.
And nobody dared breathe too loudly.
If the entrance was a kingdom of red velvet, the ballroom was a cathedral of blood and gold.
Ruby chandeliers dripped like gemstones from the ceiling.
Velvet curtains framed balconies with golden threads.
Red roses spiraled around marble pillars.
Tables glowed with gold-trimmed dinnerware.
Champagne glistened like liquid fire.
String musicians played a haunting waltz that echoed through the hall.
It was seductive.
Decadent.
Sinister.
A place where alliances were born and lives were ruined in the same night.
Conversations grew softer as Kendrick stepped into the ballroom.
People parted.
Not by rule.
Not by instruction.
By instinct.
He was a predator walking through a room full of prey pretending they weren’t terrified.
Sam followed, expression unreadable, eyes scanning the crowd.
Kendrick’s gaze didn’t linger on anything.
Not the chandeliers.
Not the décor.
Not the faces.
Only the opportunities.
The threats.
The worth of each man and woman around him.
He wasn’t here for champagne.
He was here to conquer.
And everyone in the room felt it.
Across the room, half-hidden behind a marble pillar, Leonardo Wilson watched Kendrick enter.
Not with fear.
Not with awe.
With calculation.
Leonardo wasn’t intimidated.
He wasn’t the kind of man who bowed to anyone.
But when Kendrick stepped into the crimson glow, radiating a coldness sharper than the crystal glasses — Leonardo felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time:
Possibility.
He whispered to himself,
“Yes… he’ll do.”
At the exact moment Kendrick entered the ballroom and the world tilted around him—
Seina was laughing in the streets of Milan.
Her fingers sticky with sugar from a cannoli.
Her hair blowing in the breeze.
Her heart light.
Her world peaceful.
Unaware that a decision was about to be made on the other side of the world.
A decision that would change her life forever.
The music swelled as Kendrick crossed deeper into the ballroom, but the crowd’s reaction didn’t change.
The moment he entered, the crimson-lit hall became a vacuum.
People spoke softer.
Bodies shifted aside instinctively.
A line of politicians from four different countries moved away from his path without looking obvious about it.
Even the waiters, trained to glide gracefully through crowds, slowed their steps when he approached, unsure whether to serve him or flee.
The chandeliers above reflected across the obsidian floor in rippling red light — a warning glow, like walking through a city built on molten lava.
Every pair of eyes in the room gravitated to him.
Not in admiration.
In fear.
He was the kind of man who walked like he didn’t just own money —
he owned the world’s pulse.
Sam leaned in barely an inch. “Everyone is watching.”
“I know,” Kendrick said, in a tone so calm it bordered on cruel.
He didn’t need attention.
Attention followed him like a shadow.
From one end of the room to the other, whispers spread like wildfire:
“That’s him—”
“Peterson.”
“The one who crushed the Vancouver conglomerate.”
“The man who shut down the entire Tokyo stock crash in three hours.”
“Do you see how he walks? Like every step is a threat.”
“He destroyed a multi-billion tech empire because the CEO lied to him once.”
“He’s too powerful. And too calm.”
“They say he never smiles.”
“They say he has no weaknesses.”
“They say even the mafia leaves him alone.”
“Is that true?” someone asked.
A man with trembling fingers whispered:
“No one wants to be on his bad side. Not even the mafia boss who burned down half of Florence.”
“But why?”
“What makes him so dangerous?”
“He doesn’t forgive.”
He paused.
“And he doesn’t forget.”
A wave of silence echoed after that.
Because everyone in this room knew the truth:
Kendrick Lee Peterson wasn’t a businessman.
He was a force of nature.
Leonardo Wilson watched the scene with a quiet, almost amused smile.
While everyone else stared with caution or envy, Leonardo observed with purpose.
The ruby chandeliers cast long scarlet shadows over the floor, but Kendrick walked through them without hesitation, as if even the shadows parted.
Leonardo’s sharp eyes took in every detail:
✔ The precision of Kendrick’s steps
✔ The controlled strength in his shoulders
✔ The emotionless calm on his face
✔ Sam Moore trailing behind like a silent weapon
✔ The way the crowd reshaped itself around him like metal drawn to a magnet
“Good,” Leonardo murmured to himself.
“Very good.”
His aide leaned close. “Sir, he’s exactly as the reports described.”
“No,” Leonardo corrected softly.
“He’s far more.”
He lifted his glass and took one slow sip.
“He doesn’t need people to fear him. His existence does the work.”
Kendrick finally looked in Leonardo’s direction.
It wasn’t a dramatic moment.
No gasp.
No music shift.
But it felt like something powerful snapped into place.
Kendrick’s cold gaze locked onto Leonardo’s warm, sharp one.
A silent exchange crackled across the room:
You’ve been observing me.
And you’ve been expecting me.
You’re powerful.
So are you.
You’re dangerous.
Good. I need dangerous.
In that split second, the two men — born worlds apart — understood each other.
Not as allies.
Not as enemies.
But as equals.
Two kings recognizing another king.
Then Kendrick looked away first.
Not out of respect.
Out of disinterest.
As if silently saying:
You approached my radar.
But I decide when you become my priority.
Leonardo’s smile widened by half an inch.
“…Yes,” he murmured again.
“That arrogance is exactly what she will need.”
As Kendrick headed toward the crystal bar for a glass of water, the room subtly reorganized around him:
Two CEOs pretended to be discussing strategies (they were checking if he was coming closer).
A princess lowered her gaze, suddenly self-conscious.
A billionaire who once insulted Kendrick tried to hide behind a pillar.
A man from the Middle East quietly removed himself from Kendrick’s path like a soldier retreating from a battlefield.
The orchestra’s tempo shifted—slower, more controlled, as if the musicians themselves felt the tension.
No one spoke at full volume when he passed.
No one dared approach unless they wanted to lose everything they owned within 24 hours.
Kendrick didn’t radiate anger.
Or warmth.
Or emotion.
He radiated absolute authority.
The type of authority others didn’t question because questioning it felt like touching lightning with bare hands.
Sam leaned in again, voice low:
“You know you terrify grown adults, right?”
Kendrick sipped his water. “They terrify themselves. I’m just the reminder.”
Sam snorted a laugh.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“You already are.”
Sam stopped walking.
Kendrick continued straight ahead.
Sam jogged after him. “Wait—are you joking or—?”
One glance from Kendrick.
Sam shut up.
The host of the gala — a man who owned oil fields and half of Eastern Europe — hurried forward with a rehearsed smile.
“Mr. Peterson,” he said with a slight bow. “It is an honor to have—”
Kendrick didn’t stop walking.
The host froze.
Sam murmured politely as they passed, “Thank you for hosting.”
The host nodded, relieved.
“That was rude,” Sam whispered.
“No,” Kendrick replied. “That was efficient.”
Leonardo continued watching from the base of the staircase.
He noticed something nobody else did:
The faintest flicker of exhaustion behind Kendrick’s eyes.
Not physical exhaustion.
The exhaustion of a man who had seen too much, survived too much, and trusted too little.
Leonardo whispered to himself:
“He doesn’t need protection.
But she will need someone like him.”
He set his glass down.
“Time to begin.”
He nodded to his aide.
“Tell Peterson I will speak to him now.”
As Leonardo sent the message,
as Kendrick prepared himself for the private meeting,
as the most dangerous gala in the world held its breath —
Seina was dancing.
In Milan.
On the street.
Laughing with her friends as they twirled around a street singer who was butchering a romantic Italian classic.
Her cheeks flushed from the cold.
Her eyes glittering.
Her smile bright and pure.
She had no idea her fate was being discussed like a business merger.
She had no idea a man she’d never met just changed her destiny.
She had no idea she was about to vanish from the world.
For tonight…
She was alive.
Happy.
Untouched by danger.
And that innocence was exactly why Kendrick’s world was about to collide with hers.
- Writer
