CHAPTER 119: A MAN WHOSE WORD COULD SHIFT ALLIANCES AND TIP WARS

Roman’s hand didn’t just guide Julie into the room—it claimed space for them both.

The murmurs that had been threading through the soiree died into a hush, replaced by the subtle, electric awareness that follows predators into a room full of other predators.

Kings in tailored suits. Queens draped in jewels. Every gaze weighed them.

They reached their table, the soft gleam of candlelight pooling over crystal and silverware.

Without breaking eye contact with her, Roman pulled back her chair with an effortless grace that was almost... old-fashioned.

Julie lowered herself with the kind of poise that made the gesture look like it belonged in another century.

Roman slid the chair in gently before taking the seat beside her, his broad frame settling with quiet authority.

Mr. Bellanti, already there, leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Long time, Roman. I’m sure, had it been about the concerns of the mafia world, you wouldn’t attend." His tone was casual, but the lifted brow hinted at a deeper meaning.

"Yes," Roman replied, the word sharp, clean, and without explanation.

Julie’s lips curved—small, private—at the way he never felt the need to elaborate.

Mr. Bellanti smirked faintly, swirling the wine in his glass.

Before he could continue, the smooth cadence of approaching footsteps drew attention.

A tall man, his smile a little too wide, sauntered toward them with a woman on his arm—a striking brunette in a dress designed to command notice.

"Roman," the man greeted, that grin tightening like it had been carved there.

"Hopefully, you will introduce this beauty..." He let his gaze rest on Julie a heartbeat too long, a predator’s curiosity barely masked as charm.

The air at the table shifted.

Roman’s head tilted just slightly toward the man, his eyes narrowing in that way that made seasoned men remember their mortality.

His hand found Julie’s under the table—light, possessive—but his voice, when it came, was smooth as black ice.

He strolled up with a woman in a shimmering champagne dress, his hand glued to the small of her back like he owned the world—or at least thought he did.

Roman’s gaze flicked up, slow, deliberate. "Julienne," he said, his voice carrying just enough weight to make the man’s grin falter for half a beat. "My wife."

The word hung there—wife—and Julie, despite herself, felt a subtle rush of heat crawl up her neck.

She kept her expression composed, a polite smile touching her lips.

The man chuckled, perhaps too loudly.

"Ah, so the Roman Thompson is married. And to a woman this stunning? I’m impressed."

"I’m not looking for your approval," Roman replied evenly, picking up his glass and taking a sip without breaking eye contact.

Mr. Bellanti smirked faintly at the tension, clearly amused. "Still as sharp as ever."

It was at that moment the double doors at the far end opened again.

The attention that followed was different this time—no wary curiosity, no slow sizing up—only a subtle shift that bordered on reverence. Lazarus had arrived.

He was a tall man, silver streaking through his dark hair, dressed in a black three-piece suit that carried no ornamentation yet commanded more attention than the jewel-dripping nobility across the hall.

His eyes—steel-gray and calculating—swept the room once, and like a ripple in still water, heads inclined in silent acknowledgment.

If Roman was the storm that could sweep through the underworld, Lazarus was the mountain it could never move.

Among the Mafia hierarchy, titles like King or Don were symbolic—feared and respected, yes—but Lazarus held something rarer, and far heavier: The Arbiter’s Seat.

It was an unofficial role, yet one that even the most ruthless bosses obeyed.

He didn’t rule a single territory; he ruled the table.

Disputes between syndicates, treaties between families, and the bloodiest feuds in the underworld—none concluded without his word.

His verdict was final, unquestionable, and to defy it was to sign one’s own death warrant.

Beside him walked Samantha, her gown a soft rose-gold that shimmered under the light.

Her hair fell in loose curls over one shoulder, her smile warm in a way that softened the heavy weight of her husband’s presence.

If Lazarus was the iron spine of the underworld, Samantha was its rare touch of grace.

The moment her gaze found Julie, Samantha’s face lit up.

"Julie!" she exclaimed, her voice bright, carrying just enough to turn a few heads without being disruptive.

Julie had barely stood halfway before Samantha closed the distance, wrapping her in a tight embrace that smelled faintly of jasmine.

The warmth was genuine—unusual in this room where every smile carried a hidden edge.

"It’s been too long," Samantha said, drawing back only to take Julie’s hands, eyes sparkling with the same unguarded joy as a long-lost friend reunited.

Julie’s own smile widened. "Far too long."

Lazarus’s presence loomed just behind, not in a menacing way, but with a quiet authority that pressed at the edges of the space.

When he inclined his head toward Julie, it was the closest thing to a bow a man like him would ever give.

Samantha slid gracefully into the seat beside Julie, as though she’d been meant to sit there all along, the two of them already leaning toward each other in lively conversation.

Their smiles were wide, unguarded, a rare bubble of warmth amid the cold calculations surrounding them.

Roman, meanwhile, sat back slightly, one hand resting lazily on the arm of his chair, but his eyes—sharp and dark—remained quietly attuned to every subtle movement in the room.

The hall glimmered with low amber light, chandeliers glowing like captive suns above the polished marble floor.

The air was thick with wealth, perfume, and the sharp edge of power that lingered wherever the mafia elite gathered.

Julie, seated beside Roman with Samantha close on her other side, leaned slightly toward her friend, laughing at something Samantha whispered.

Their heads bent together, a warm feminine bond forming in the midst of cold steel men and their dangerous auras.

Julie’s smile was gentle, unforced — and that very softness became the source of envy for many eyes around the room.

Several mafia queens — wives and mistresses of powerful men — gazed at her with undisguised bitterness.

They were striking women in their own rights, jeweled and draped in silks, but there was something about Julie’s natural radiance, paired with the man beside her, that unsettled them.

Roman Thompson — the untouchable, the ruthless shadow king — had chosen her.

Whispers moved like smoke. Some of the women tried to hide their envy behind painted lips and practiced smirks, but the truth lingered in their eyes.

Even among women hardened by the mafia life, some secretly longed for Roman.

His power was magnetic; his aura, dangerous yet magnetic enough to stir desire in those who should have feared him.

But none dared to voice it aloud. He was a man they could admire from afar, never touch.

Julie’s laughter rang again, warm and unguarded, and a queen in emerald clenched her jeweled goblet so tightly the stem nearly snapped.

And then—at a shadowed corner of the room—another scene unfolded.

A young woman sat straddling the lap of a man known for his cruelty, her body pressed against his as his hand roamed beneath the table.

Her lips curled into a sly, intoxicated smile, her shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed giggles.

She thought herself bold, untouchable, enjoying the display of lust in a room full of authority.

But as her eyes wandered lazily across the hall, they landed on him.

Roman Thompson.

For one breathless second, she forgot to breathe. Her smirk vanished, her body stiffened against her partner’s wandering hands.

The wine glass in her grip trembled, nearly tipping over. Her pupils widened in naked terror as she realized whose gaze her own had carelessly met.

Roman didn’t even glance in her direction. He remained perfectly composed, his profile carved in sharp indifference as he leaned slightly toward Lazarus.

But for her, that cold dismissal was worse than fury. She froze in her place, suddenly feeling like prey caught beneath the shadow of a predator.

The man beneath her chuckled, mistaking her stillness for arousal. But she knew better.

Roman’s presence alone was enough to strip her of her bravado. She dared not move again.

At the main table, Lazarus leaned back slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as he spoke to Roman in a low, deliberate tone.

His voice carried weight, the kind that made men pause and listen.

"About the attack on your men," Lazarus said, his words clipped but heavy, "I had reports delivered straight to me.

" The blood on the street was more than just a warning. Whoever ordered it wanted you to bleed, Roman. Wanted to test how far your reach still extends."

Roman’s jaw tightened, though his face remained composed.

He rested his elbow on the table, long fingers brushing idly against the rim of his glass.

Julie, absorbed in conversation with Samantha, did not hear him—but Lazarus caught the shadow flickering in Roman’s eyes.

"They made their mistake," Roman replied flatly. "My people were prepared.

They thought chaos would scatter them. Instead, it united them." His voice was quiet, but the steel beneath it was unyielding.

Lazarus’s gaze darkened, calculating. "We both know who sits at the root of this. Bekora. He’s growing reckless. And reckless men are dangerous if not cut down at the root."

Then he added "But I wonder why is he about the still silence," his eyes narrowing further.

The name hung between them like smoke from a gun barrel.

Roman’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. Dangerous. Cold. "I’m already aware," he said, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper.

"Bekora’s time is running out. What he touched is mine—and for that, he will answer."

Lazarus gave a small, approving nod, his hand tapping the table once in thought.

In the mafia world, he was more than a king — he was the one kings feared. An old lion whose claws still cut deep, a man whose word could shift alliances and tip wars.

To have him at Roman’s side, even in conversation, was a declaration in itself.

And across the table, Mr. Bellanti watched silently, an almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He, too, recognized the storm that was forming, the shadow war that would soon redraw lines of power.