By now, the dining hallwas even more chaotic than before.
"Bring that waitress out here right now! Bring her to me!" the menman snarled, jabbing his finger intothe manager's forehead.
"Boss, that young lady is truly new here," the manager stammerbowing his head and practically melting with fear. "I've heard she cameto work here in order to help herboyfriend pay off adebt. Her background is quite pitifulPlease, let's just forget about it. Tonight's meal is on me—I'll pay for your dinner as an apology to you andthe rest of the bosses."
But before he could finish, there was a sudden crack.
The man didn't bother with any more words; he grabbed an empty plate—one thatstill had flecks of sauce and crumbs stuck to it—and slammed it down on the manager's skull. The sound of broken china and flesh cracking echoed throughout thehall. The manager crumpled to the floor, clutching his head with both hands as bright red blood splattered between his fingers.
"You motherfucker!" the thug roared, snatching handfuls of the manager's hair with one hand as he slapped him again and again with the other.You've got the nerve to talk back while I'm speaking? You think you can negotiate with me? I donneed your damn charity dinner—do you think I can't afford to eat here? You think you're doing me a favor? I'llgive you a favor: I'll beat you so fucking hardthat you'll wish you were dead!"
"Boss, I—I'm sorry!I swear, that's not what I meant…" Themanager's voice was hoarse; he was dazed,blood still oozing down his cheeks, and he had no idea what explanation could possibly appease this furious man.
"I'm telling you right now: you better handover that little bitch, Jasmine, and bring her to me!" the man shouted as he planted the manager's head back on a chair,his fingers digging into the hair to keep him pinned. "I'm taking her tonight! If anyone here dato stand up to me, I will show you what my wrath really is! I'll beat you until you wish you werenever born!"
Though the man's threats carried the swagger of someone accustomed to violence, his true intention was to abduct Jasmine;forcing her to apologize was just an excuse. After all, how big of a deal would it beto drag a single waitress out of the restaurant? He was surrounded by peers—leaders of Clevelandstreet gangs—and he wanted to demonstrate, in front of all these equals, just howruthless and domineering he could be.
Everyone at the table sat in silence, albeit tense. They were fellow gangleaders—on the surface, they were all laughing and chatting asif they were enjoying each other's company, but each of them carried concealed ambitions. They competed with one anotherfor territory and influence, so no one was about to risk their own standing to defend a lowly waitress.
The manager, seeing the situation clearly, realized that he had no way to protect Jasmine. If he didn't comply, he might lose more than just his employee—he could be beaten so badly he might not survive. Worse, the entire restaurant could be destroyed in the ensuingchaos.
"Please…you guys…go get Jasmine and bring her here. Let this boss deal withher," the manager groaned, voice trembling, as he signaled two servers standing behind him tocarry out his orders.
"Heh heh. Looks like you finally understand the situation," the thug gloated, scanning the entire dining hall. "Listen up, everyone: anythingI want, I always get. If anybody here dares tooppose me tonight, I'll kill them—no hesitation!"
A waveof apprehension rippled through the rest of the diners. Some shrank into theirseats, others exchanged uneasy glances.There was no question thatthis man was dangerous. If anyonedared to interfere, they'd be risking their lives.
Just as two young servers shuffled nervously toward the back kitchen to find Jasmine, a figure suddenly sprang up behind the trembling manager. Before anyone could reactthis stranger, drivenby furious momentum, raised a utensil—and with a thunderous thud, slammed it straight intothe thug'sface.
The man didn't have time to process what had happened. He tumbled off his chair, crashing to the floor as bloodspurted from his nose and mouth in a fountain of red. Shock spread across everyone's faces. Who the hell was this lunatic, to dare strike such a high-ranking gang boss?
Then they saw him clearly: a clean-cut young man holding a large metal cooking spoon—one used in the back kitchento stir big woks. The utensil looked comically oversized in his hand, but the force behind it had been staggering.
"You motherfucker!" the thug sputtered, pressing his hands against his mangled face. "You have no idea who you're messing with—"
But before he could finish, the young man—Grayson—struck again. He swung the heavy spoon up and brought it crashing down on the thug's skull with a sickening crunch. Blow after blow rained down in a furious barrage: spoon upon spoon,each connecting with brutal force to the thug's head and face. Grayson's expression was cold and relentless, the kind of fury that left no room for mercy.
At first, though the thug attempted to snarlingly curse and fight back, his strength quickly drained away. Under Grayson's unrelenting assault, he slumped, half-conscious, in his chair. But Grayson wasn't done: he vaulted onto the table, still brandishing the battle-worn spoon, and continued hammering away.
Every other gang leader in the room froze, mouths agape. A single young man was beating their boss senseless with a cooking spoon—who would dare to even imagine such a spectacle? Some murmured to one another:
"He's crazy… but damn, he's got guts to take on a gang boss like this."
"A real shame. He's gonna regret this as soon as he cools off. That boss is going to come after him mercilessly."
"I can't believe none of usare stepping in. We're all the same rank. If we interfere, we lose face. Besides, we're also plotting against each other all the time."
The manager cowered against a wall, clutching his fractured skull. The other diners fled to the corners. Only a few courageous—or foolish—souls watched in morbid fascination.
Eventually, Grayson threw aside the twisted spoon. His T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. He panted heavily, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. The thug, already bleeding uncontrollably, slumped in his chair, nearly out cold.
The young man glared down at him and said in a measured, icy voice, "Kid? You still got the nerve to live another second? Admit your name—if you dare."
The thug let out a gurgling laugh. Blood trickled from his mouth as he struggled to speak. "Hell, you don't even know who I am. But rest assured—I'm crazier than you. Just you wait, kid."
Grayson ignored him. Instead, he pivoted toward the manager and barked, "Bring me a bowl of that Roman-style beef-and-egg drop soup—right now."
The manager, still quivering from terror, nodded vigorously. He backed away and practically sprinted to the kitchen. Moments later, he returned with a steaming porcelain bowl, ladling out a fragrant broth filled with tender beef slices and delicate ribbons of egg, all floating in a clear, peppery stock.
Grayson seized the bowl without a word and looked down at the thug. "I didn't want to have to teach you a lesson like this," he declared. "But since you decided to torch her scalding hot coffee all over my girlfriend, I had no choice. You know who she is?"
The thug blinked up at him, pressing his face against the back of the chair. "What are you talking about? I didn't spill anything on nobody—"
But Grayson wasn't listening. He lifted the bowl and dumped a ladleful of boiling soup straight into the thug's mouth. The man shrieked, arching his back as he fought to swallow the scalding liquid. Tears welled up in his eyes, and his entire face contorted in agony. He fell forward, convulsing on the floor.
A hush fell over the room. Whispers threaded through the onlookers.
"This kid's got guts," someone murmured. "He genuinely cared about his girlfriend."
"But he just beat a boss with a kitchen spoon. That's insane."
"And now, he's pouring boiling soup down his throat? That's cold-blooded."
But still, no one dared to intervene.
As the thug writhed on the ground, Grayson tossed the empty spoon aside and turned to leave. The murmurs continued, but no one stepped forward to stop him. Finally, one of the gang leaders—a burly man munching on a half-eaten dumpling—spoke up, shaking his head.
"Listen, kid," he called out. "You've made yourself some serious enemies tonight."
Grayson paused by the doorway and glanced over his shoulder, expression unreadable. The manager, crouching in the corner, had just staggered to his feet, leaning against a post. He wiped the sweat and specks of blood from his face as if to catch his breath. Nearby, the rest of the dining hall had emptied—or at least, everyone who wasn't paying close attention to the unfolding drama had fled.
The battered thug, his face a mask of cuts and bruises, still croaked from the floor, "You… you'll die for this, kid. My name is Dante Moretti. Cleveland's streets quake when they hear that name. You may run now, but… we'll find you. I swear it—Dante Moretti will dig the earth up to find you and your girlfriend."
Grayson's eyes narrowed. He strode toward the thug and said coolly, "Dante Moretti," he repeated. "I've heard that name before—called 'The Cobra King,' right? Cold as ice, lethal as a snake's bite."
The thug's eyes widened in shock, his mouth working but no sound coming out.
Before the rest of the hall could catch on to what had just transpired, the manager hurried forward to whisper urgently into Grayson's ear: "Boss…Dante Moretti is powerful. They say he's unstoppable. But… I also heard this: if you want toknow who this kid is, ask Derek Thompson over at the Maple Creek Inn & Suites. Tell him to reveal Grayson's identity."
Grayson gave the manager a calculating look, smiled faintly, and said, "Names? Nah. You don't need to know my name. Just head to the Maple Creek Inn & Suites and ask for Derek Thompson. He'll tell you who I am."
Grayson gave a cold snort and immediately turned to walk away.
Originally, Grayson had planned to use Sebastian's name, but Sebastian was the head of the family's Western branch—a far higher-ranking figure. It would have been overkill to drag him into this petty gang conflict. So instead, Grayson opted for Derek's name. After all, Derek Thompson had extensive dealings with Cleveland's criminal underworld; dropping his name would carry just the right amount of weight without overplaying it.
"Ha… hahahaha!"
To everyone's shock, the vicious thug suddenly threw his head back and laughed uproariously.
"You punk," he sneered through his amusement. "You really think you can pull off me acting like you're one of Mr. Thompson's men? Do you even know how much Mr. Thompson hates people pretending to be connected to him? You've just signed your own death warrant tonight!"
With that, the thug swivelled in his chair and roared at the ten or so gang leaders seated around him at the long table. "That brat just roughed me up, and not a single one of you had the nerve to step in. Fine. But now he's out here impersonating Mr. Thompson? If you don't teach him a lesson right now, do you really think Thompson won't hold all of us accountable?"
As soon as those words rang out, the other gang heads sprang to their feet as one, rising up in a coordinated movement that effectively blocked Grayson's only path out of the dining hall.