The casino floor of the Imperial Club had been transformed from a playground for the wealthy into a grim theater of war. Under the cold, unwavering direction of Lord Buddha, the green-felted craps tables and mahogany roulette wheels were shoved aside by a small army of lackeys, clearing a vast, hollow space in the center of the hall.
In the middle of this makeshift arena, a single, ornate high-backed chair had been placed. Lord Buddha sat there, his posture as rigid and imposing as a statue of a vengeful deity. His face remained a mask of shadowed fury, his hands resting calmly on the armrests, though the knuckles were white. He was no longer just a local kingpin; he was a sovereign awaiting a challenger. His message to Valor City was loud and clear: if anyone wanted to save Mia Powell, t
