“Here we go,” I whispered.
“Here we go,” she repeated with an unbothered expression on her lovely face.
The host opened the door and ushered us in, presenting a slight bow and hand gesture. Elegantly set tables, perfect white linens, and eyes: surprise, awe, curiosity, and every other emotion was reflected in the group’s watchful stares as silence came alive and entombed their movements.
New sets of eyes locked on us as they framed us to their psyche, no doubt forming opinions, speculating, and making determinations without facts. The volume of their mental scrutiny grew more intense with each step we took. The group of about twenty couples ranged in ages from thirty to seventy-eight, the eldest man having the youngest wife.
Mecca walked beside me with her head held high, her arm looped through mine. Some welcomed us with head nods and lifted wine glasses pointed in our direction. We returned the gestures with pleasant smiles and friendly nods of our own.
Low murmurs found their way to us, but I was unable to decipher anything specific. Once we reached our table, I assisted Mecca into her chair before taking mine.
“I expected this to be dinner, us sitting around someone’s kitchen table. This is a full-on dinner party.” Her words breezed between her lips.
“Something like that,” I returned.
Our table sat in the center of one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. They had rented out the place for our dinner party. Thankfully, whoever coordinated the event respected that I wasn’t going to put my back to the entrance, or anyone else for that matter.
They had rearranged the place so that our table sat at the far wall and allowed us a view of everyone in attendance, as well as the front door. A brick wall sat at our backs. A large table sat off to our right, overflowing with gift bags and boxes with more boxes stacked under the table. The envelopes were no doubt stuffed with money. Ass-kissing was a sport that would never die, but I already had plans to donate everything they had given us, to charity.
Stanford ‘Stan’ Wallace, was the first to stand, and expectantly so. He was the first to protest when I had taken over for my father. He did a good job of appearing innocent, but I knew he had made a few attempts to stir up trouble, even made a few attempts on my life.
The only reason he wasn’t dead was because I hadn’t decided to kill him yet. There were still a few things I needed from him. His attempts on my life had never succeeded or gotten past my secret weapon—Khane.
The rest of the guests quieted as Stan presented a fake smile and lifted his glass to make a toast. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Vallin.”
A rounds of claps sounded along with welcomes and hellos, and I swore I heard the fakeness in their applause. This party was nothing more than a shit-show for them to get a close-up view of Mecca.
I hadn’t invited any of these two-faced, old crows to our wedding, and I’m sure I had hurt their feelings of self-importance by leaving them out.
“I must compliment you on your choice. Your wife is beautiful.”
But?
“But…” He was predictable and wasted no time getting to the point of this dinner.
“An alliance with a drug cartel isn’t the best move to make on behalf of this syndicate. I’m surprised something like this was cleared.”
Because they didn’t consult with the likes of you.
The committee that cast deciding votes were old-power, much like this group who approved major deals and implemented laws, like a warped version of congress. The difference between the group that decided the Vallin-Evans alliance, and this one, was that they were more like federal level, and the group in this room were like state.
Although I essentially possessed more power than any of them, sort of like a governor, they had enough collective power to overthrow my decisions. They could also overthrow my position and vote me out. Attempts were made, but I had learned the game of always having more of them on my side than not.
Mecca appeared to be fighting her reaction to Stan’s comments as her body remained tensed. I reached for her hand. Once she handed it over, I held tight and stood. Stan continued to talk, but I had stopped listening after his first complete sentence.
“I’ve been the head of this region for seven years now. Not only have I made everyone in this room richer, but I’ve somehow managed to control my impulse to send some of you in here to hell for trying to kill me.”
Mecca bit into her lip, dropping her head to hide the telling smile that surfaced at my comment that had set off gasps and had hands covering some of the awed faces in the crowd. Stan pointed at Mecca.
“You smile, young lady, but you have no idea who you’re married to. Just because you’re some drug kingpin’s niece, it doesn’t give you any kind of power in this world. You’re nothing but a bridge between two deep gaps that you’ll never understand.”
He wanted more power, yet he failed to fully understand the world in which he lived. In the simplest terms, he was too old for this shit. His methods and ways were outdated.
“It won’t take but a few seconds for me to tell you that my wife is the most powerful woman in this room, but it would take me a lifetime to make you understand the reasons why.”
I glanced down at Mecca.
“My dear, sweet, lovely wife runs the Black Saints.”