No Fortune Can Buy His Mercy

Chapter 002

The Carmichael family had been one of Cresthaven's most powerful clans even while Arthur Vance was still alive. Their industries spanned the entire city, their assets ran deep, and their connections threaded through nearly every major faction in town.

More importantly, the Carmichaels had built their empire through the grey market, which meant the family kept a small army of enforcers on permanent retainer.

There was a story people still told. Years ago, a ringer from out of town had gotten into a dispute with the Carmichaels and publicly sworn he would tear their house down within three days. By the end of the week, that same man had been reduced to a stray dog, beaten so thoroughly he fled the city with nothing but the clothes on his back. After that, nobody in Cresthaven questioned what happened to people who crossed the Carmichael name.

Trent Carmichael, the eldest son, embodied that reputation perfectly. He moved through the city as though the laws applied to everyone but him.

Now, standing near the hotel's main entrance, Trent fixed his gaze on Elias Vance and then turned toward the security staff. "This guy doesn't have an invitation, does he?"

"He's been standing here for a while, sir," the guard replied honestly. "If he had one, he would've gone in already."

Understanding clicked immediately in Trent's mind. He'd seen this before at events like these. Every major gathering attracted a handful of opportunists who loitered at the gates hoping to catch the attention of someone important, grasping for that one-in-a-million shot at climbing the ladder. Having heard the guard's confirmation, Trent was now entirely convinced that the man before him was exactly that sort of nobody, someone without an invitation, lingering at the door, desperate to latch onto a patron.

His eyes drifted to Gideon's frame, appraising the bodyguard's powerful build with the casual interest of a man evaluating livestock. Not bad, he decided, and potentially useful.

"Ha! I get it now." Trent laughed loudly and strode forward, reaching out to clap Elias on the shoulder. "Listen here, kid. Your little scheme is obvious. Tell you what, from now on, you and your muscle here can be my dogs. How's that sound?"

His hand never reached its target. Before Trent's palm could touch Elias's shoulder, Gideon caught his wrist and shoved it aside with a motion that carried the finality of a steel door slamming shut.

"Get lost," Gideon said. His voice was flat and cold.

"What did you just say to me?"

The color drained from Trent's face before flooding back in a hot rush of fury. He was the firstborn son of the Carmichael family. Nobody spoke to him like that, and certainly not some anonymous thug working for a man who didn't even warrant a name.

Trent slowly withdrew his hand, his expression darkening into something ugly and dangerous. "I'll give you one chance," he said, his voice dropping to a glacial hiss. "Both of you. Get on your knees right now, apologize, and lick the dust off my shoes. Two of you, two shoes, works out perfectly. Do it right, and maybe I'll consider letting this go."

Gideon simply stared at him with eyes that held the warmth of a winter grave.

Elias Vance stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze distant, as though his mind had drifted somewhere far from this petty confrontation and he was contemplating something of far greater weight.

Trent's brow furrowed in disbelief, his jaw tightening as he processed the fact that neither man had so much as flinched. "What's this? Playing deaf and dumb? Didn't hear me clearly?" His attention swung to Elias, and his tone sharpened into something vicious. "Hey. Weren't you out here looking to be someone's dog? I'm offering you the position. You really want to waste this opportunity?"

"Marshal?" Gideon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Elias Vance's focus returned to the present. He gave the faintest nod. "No blood," he said simply.

Gideon moved before the words had fully left the air. His right foot shot forward with mechanical precision, driving into the side of Trent Carmichael's knee. The crack was immediate and nauseating, a sound like green wood snapping under tremendous pressure. Trent's mouth tore open in a shriek, but before he could even begin to crumple, Gideon's other foot found his remaining knee. Both joints shattered almost simultaneously. With a wet, splintering crunch, Trent collapsed forward and slammed onto his knees directly in front of Elias Vance, as though some invisible force had ripped away every ounce of his arrogance and dropped him into a posture of involuntary supplication.

Several guests who hadn't yet entered the hotel witnessed the entire exchange. Gasps rippled through the small crowd, voices dropping to stunned, hurried whispers. Nobody could quite believe what they'd just seen. Trent Carmichael, firstborn of the Carmichael family, struck down on the steps of the Elysium Hotel.

Both kneecaps were utterly destroyed, yet there was not a single drop of blood on the ground. Elias had said no blood, and Gideon had obeyed that order to the letter.

The security guard's face went white as paper. Who were these two? First they'd stood at the entrance staring into space, and then, without warning, they'd crushed the Carmichael heir's knees like they were stepping on dry twigs.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" Trent roared through the agony, veins bulging in his neck. "You dare touch me? I'll bury your whole family alongside you!"

The slap came without warning, a full, open-palmed strike across the face that whipped Trent's head sideways. He groaned and instinctively tried to spit the shattered remnants of a molar mixed with blood from his mouth. But Gideon was already there, one massive hand clamping around Trent's jaw, fingers digging into both cheeks, forcing his mouth closed with irresistible strength. Trent gagged, his eyes bulging as he was made to swallow his own broken teeth and blood, forced to choke it all back down.

"Marshal Vance said no blood," Gideon stated in that same emotionless tone, not releasing his grip until Trent had swallowed every last drop. Only then did his fingers open.

Trent's face was a mottled purple-red, his chest heaving in ragged, wheezing gasps. Blood pooled behind his clenched teeth, but he didn't dare let a single drop escape his lips.

"Good God, is that Trent Carmichael? Am I seeing things?"

"What just happened? The Carmichael heir got slapped around like a child. Who are those two?"

The onlookers couldn't place either man, but they could clearly see the hierarchy at play. The hulking enforcer answered to the quiet, composed figure standing with his hands behind his back, like a king who couldn't be bothered to glance at an insect beneath his feet.

The beating had shattered something inside Trent beyond bone. His face crumpled, and tears spilled involuntarily down his cheeks. "I was wrong," he choked out, his voice breaking into a pathetic whimper. "I'm the one who should be licking your shoes."

He bent forward, mouth opening, lowering himself toward Elias's shoe.

Elias frowned faintly, a flicker of disgust crossing his features. Before Trent's lips could make contact, Gideon's boot caught him square in the face and kicked him sprawling sideways.

"The Carmichaels won't let this go!" Trent screamed, one final burst of defiance before his eyes rolled back and he went limp on the pavement. Whether he'd fainted from humiliation or from the accumulated damage was anyone's guess.

Gideon glanced at Elias, saw no further instruction, and turned his attention to the guard. "Now. May we enter?"

"Of course! Please, please come right in!" The guard practically tripped over himself getting out of the way, not daring to so much as mention the word invitation. These two had just crippled the Carmichael firstborn without breaking a sweat. A hundred lifetimes of courage wouldn't be enough to make him block their path.

Elias strode through the entrance without looking back.

Gideon fell into step beside him, matching his pace but maintaining a respectful half-step behind, never presuming to walk as an equal.

Inside, Elias removed the military greatcoat draped over his shoulders and handed it to Gideon. "The matter between the Vance family and the Sterling family," he said evenly. "Stay out of it."

"Understood!" Gideon moved to drop to one knee, the gesture instinctive and reverent.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Elias's brow creased as he caught Gideon's arm and kept him upright. "That's not necessary."

Gideon broke into a guileless, almost boyish grin. "I swore my oath long ago, sir. This life belongs to Marshal Vance. A little courtesy like this, why let it bother you?"

Elias said nothing more and walked deeper into the banquet hall.

Gideon scratched the back of his head and followed in silence, looking for all the world like an oversized puppy trailing its master. There was no trace of the terrifying violence he'd unleashed just moments ago.

Elias's entrance drew immediate attention. Most of the guests recognized one another by sight, the usual constellation of Cresthaven's elite circling in familiar orbits. But this man was a stranger, and that alone was enough to generate whispers. He had been absent from the city for a full decade, and had news of Arthur Vance's death not reached him, he might not have returned for years still.

He moved through the crowd like a blade cutting silk. His bearing was commanding, his stride unhurried but purposeful, and every eye in the room tracked him involuntarily.

"Who is that? He carries himself like he owns the place. When did Cresthaven get a new player like him?"

"No idea. Maybe someone the Sterlings invited? Although his outfit is certainly unconventional."

"Unconventional is one word for it. Old Man Sterling's birthday celebration, and this man shows up dressed entirely in white. He's either fearless or insane."

Elias had worn white today to mourn Arthur Vance. He hadn't anticipated it would make him the center of attention, but the sea of dark formal wear parted around his pale figure like water around a stone.

His arrival did not escape Chloe Sinclair's notice. Chloe was Cresthaven's most notorious socialite and Vivian Sterling's cousin. Countless men had tried to win her favor, and she knew how to read power and potential at a glance.

The moment she laid eyes on Elias, something quickened in her chest. She picked up a champagne flute and glided toward him, her smile polished to a high shine.

"And what might your name be, sir?" Chloe asked, her voice a smooth purr. "I'm Chloe Sinclair. I like to think I know everyone worth knowing in this city, and yet I've never once seen someone like you." As she spoke, she leaned closer, angling her body toward his.

Elias caught the wave of perfume that preceded her, cloying and aggressive, and his expression tightened with visible distaste. "You reek," he said flatly. "Back off."

Every conversation within earshot died at once.

What had he just said? This man had just told Chloe Sinclair, the Chloe Sinclair, that she smelled bad, and ordered her to get away from him.

The flirtatious smile froze on Chloe's face like cracking porcelain. Her eyes went hard. "You son of a bitch," she hissed. "What did you just say to me?"

Elias reached over to the nearest table, plucked a glass of champagne from its surface, and lifted it casually to his nose, breathing in the clean, crisp scent of the wine as though using it to cleanse his palate of her presence.

Chloe watched this deliberate gesture, and her blood pressure spiked to near-detonation levels. He hadn't spoken another word, but the action was somehow more insulting than anything he could have said.

"I don't care where you crawled out from, and I don't care who you think you are." A voice tight with fury cut through the silence nearby. "You've got three seconds to apologize to the lady." The speaker was Preston Montgomery, the firstborn son of the Montgomery family.