FROM PRISON TRASH TO GOD OF WAR

Chapter 3: The War God Arrives

The killing intent radiating from him made Marcus—a man who'd stared down warlords and terrorists without flinching—take an involuntary step back.

"Tell them," Alexander said coldly, "that I will attend. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Marcus saluted sharply. "Yes, General. The Western Command is on high alert. Give the word, and I will mobilize the entire Ghost Legion, level every Thompson estate, and erase their very bloodline from the map!”

No, this isn't a war for the Legion, Marcus," Alexander's voice dropping to a deathly, calm whisper. "This is a debt. And a debt this deep can only be settled by hand."

He looked toward the city lights, where the Thompson banquet was surely beginning.

"Stand down. Keep the perimeter secure," Alexander commanded, his gaze turning lethal. "I’m going to the Thompson banquet alone. I want to see the looks on their faces when the 'dead man' walks through their front door."

He glanced down at the mangled, lifeless heap that was Derek’s body.

"Pack that trash up," Alexander gestured coldly. "We’re bringing a gift to the party."

Meanwhile, at the Grand Marquis Hotel.

The ballroom glittered like a jewel box. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors, while champagne flowed from fountains carved from ice. The city's elite moved through the space in designer gowns and tailored suits, their jewelry worth more than most people earned in a lifetime.

"Have you heard? The War God is actually coming here tonight!"

"I still can't believe it. My father waited at the airport for six hours and didn't even get close."

"Six hours? Senator Morrison was there for eight. They wouldn't let him past the security checkpoint."

"Everyone was rejected," someone else added bitterly. "The Morgan family. The Chen corporation. Even Governor Williams himself."

"So how did the Thompson family manage it?"

All eyes turned toward the center of the room, where Robert Thompson held court like a king, his wife Victoria beside him in a blood-red gown that probably cost six figures. Their son, Jason Thompson, stood nearby, chest puffed out with barely contained pride.

"Robert! You absolute genius!" A CEO clasped Robert's shoulder. "How did you convince the War God to attend your banquet?"

Robert waved his hand modestly, though his smile was anything but humble. "Oh, it was nothing really. Just happened to have the right connections at the right time."

"Nothing? Robert, every major family in five states tried and failed. You must have some incredible influence."

Victoria laughed, the sound like champagne bubbles. "My husband is simply exceptional. That's why the Thompson family has grown so successfully under his leadership."

"Absolutely!" another guest gushed. "The company valuation has tripled since you took over, hasn't it?"

"Four times, actually," Jason interjected proudly. "Father's business acumen is unmatched."

Soft murmurs of admiration rippled through the crowd. Robert let them wash over him, his chest swelling with satisfaction.

They praised him. As they should.

No one here needed to know that the Cane family’s fortune hadn’t been built by his hands at all. The foundation, the real backbone of the company, had been laid years ago—by Alexander’s mother.

Robert had simply stepped in at the right moment and taken the credit.

His lips curved faintly. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

History, after all, was written by the one standing at the top.

An older woman in pearls shook her head admiringly. "You know, it's such a blessing that you took control when you did, Robert. Can you imagine if that little bastard—what was his name? Alexander?—if he had inherited everything?"

The festive atmosphere stuttered, then stopped entirely for half a heartbeat.

Then someone laughed. "Oh God, Alexander Kane! I'd almost forgotten about that piece of trash!"

Robert's expression darkened with righteous anger. "That boy was a disgrace. An absolute disgrace to the Thompson name. The things he did—abandoning his bride, attacking Victoria—I couldn't let him taint this family any longer."

"You did the right thing throwing him out," the CEO agreed. "Some people are just born rotten."

A younger businessman raised his glass. "I heard he died in prison. Good riddance, I say."

"Hear, hear!"

"Should have died sooner, if you ask me."

Robert held up his hands, his face serious but his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Please, everyone. Let's not speak ill of the dead, even if Alexander brought it upon himself. Tonight is about celebration, not the past."

The crowd quieted. All eyes turned to Robert as he stepped onto the small stage that had been prepared.

"Thank you all for joining us this evening. The Thompson family is humbled and honored by your presence." He paused for effect. "But we are even more honored to announce that our most distinguished guest is already en route. The War God himself will be arriving at any moment!"

The ballroom exploded with applause. Champagne glasses raised in toast. People pressed closer to the entrance, jockeying for the best view.

Someone near the entrance called out, "I think I see headlights!"

"Is it him?"

"It must be!"

The massive double doors at the end of the red carpet began to swing open. Every conversation died. Every eye fixed on the entrance.

Slowly, deliberately, a figure emerged from the shadows beyond the doorway.

Tall. Ramrod straight posture. Military bearing evident in every step.

The figure walked forward into the light.

Robert's welcoming smile froze on his face.

Victoria's champagne glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the marble floor.

Because the man walking down the red carpet toward them—the man the entire city had been waiting for, the man whose name shook nations—was not a stranger.

"Good evening," he said softly. "I believe I was invited to a banquet."