Mason didn't understand why Sophia had suddenly told him to do that, but he pressed the speakerphone button anyway.
"I'm Sophia Rockefeller." Her voice came through the speaker, crisp and clear in the tense, oppressive atmosphere. "Raymond 'Razor' Garcia? You have some nerve. Mason Cooper is a distinguished guest of the Rockefeller family, and you dare to threaten him? Kidnap someone?"
The expression on Razor's face was a sight to behold—shock, terror, disbelief, despair.
"It's... it's a pleasure, Miss Sophia... this... this is all a misunderstanding..." His voice was dry and raspy.
"Kneel." Sophia's voice was icy. "You will stay on your knees until I get there. If I arrive and you're not kneeling, you know the consequences."
The call ended.
Razor stood there, his mind in violent turmoil. In the end, slowly, humiliatingly, he lowered himself to his knees.
Mason put his phone away, walked back into the diner, and led Emily out. The girl was still trembling, but her eyes widened with shock at the sight of Razor kneeling and the men scattered on the ground around him.
---
Ten minutes later, three black Rolls-Royce Cullinans sped down the street and screeched to a halt at the curb. The doors opened, and Sophia Rockefeller stepped out. She wore an exquisite dress.
She walked over to Razor and looked down at him from her full height.
"Raymond Garcia." Sophia's tone was cold.
"Y-yes, Miss Sophia..." Razor kept his head bowed, not daring to look at her.
"Look up."
Razor lifted his head with difficulty.
Sophia stared at him for a few seconds, then turned to Mason, her voice instantly softening. "Mason, are you alright? And who is this?"
"I'm fine. She's the girl I helped the other night," Mason introduced.
Sophia turned her attention away from Razor to the still-shaken Emily. She took a few steps closer, her tone natural and gentle, as if chatting with a friend. "Don't be afraid, it's over now. May I ask your name? What do you do?"
Emily sniffled, trying to stop trembling, and answered quietly, "I'm Emily... Emily Rodriguez. I... I'm a junior at USC, studying vocal performance."
"USC? That's an excellent school," Sophia nodded approvingly, offering an encouraging smile. "And your dream? What do you want to do in the future?"
Mentioning her dream brought a flicker of light back into Emily's eyes, even through the tear tracks. Her voice gained a touch of firmness. "I... I want to be a real singer. To sing on a real stage."
"A wonderful dream," Sophia gave a slight nod. Her gaze then shifted back to Razor, who was still kneeling. Her tone returned to its previous flatness, yet carried an undeniable weight. "You heard that, Mr. Garcia. A young artist with a dream, nearly destroyed by your actions."
Razor's whole body went rigid. His mind raced. This was an opportunity! A chance to redeem himself, to make amends, maybe even leave a positive impression on the Rockefeller heiress! He immediately looked up, his face contorting into his most earnest, most "understanding" expression. His words were rushed but clear:
"Miss Sophia, Mr. Cooper, Miss Emily! What happened tonight, I deserve to die for it! To express my most sincere apologies, and to support Miss Emily in pursuing her dream... I own a club on Sunset Boulevard, called 'Crown of Splendor'."
He paused, as if to emphasize the club's status. "It's not one of those seedy places, Miss Sophia. It's one of LA's premier live music venues, catering to a discerning clientele. Hollywood producers, music label scouts, they all frequent the place looking for fresh talent. Getting a slot on the main stage at 'Crown of Splendor' is highly competitive, the standards are very strict. Lots of big stars today had residencies there, like... 'Rihanna' (he almost said it, then quickly corrected himself)... No, artists like Lana Del Rey sang there early in her career, and 'Adele' (his pronunciation wavered)... oh, 'Adele'! Right, and 'Bruno Mars' (his tongue stumbled)... Anyway, it's a real star-making stage!"
He grew more animated, as if pitching his property. "I'd like to... no, I beg Miss Emily to give me the chance! Starting tomorrow, the main stage at 'Crown of Splendor', the prime slot from nine to eleven every night, is reserved for you! That's the focal point, the best time! We'll provide the finest backing band, the top-tier sound system, full support!"
Seeming to think it wasn't enough, he hastily added, almost babbling: "And security! Absolute security! I'll personally arrange for the most reliable people to escort Miss Emily to and from campus and the club every day, full protection! Won't let any idiot... uh..." He faltered, realizing he was the biggest "idiot" here, a flash of embarrassment crossing his face before he recovered, "...won't let anyone bother Miss Emily! Let her focus on her art in peace!"
Finished, he looked pleadingly at Sophia, then at Mason, finally turning his "hopeful" gaze to the bewildered Emily.
Sophia listened quietly to his frantic, slightly absurd proposal, her expression unreadable. She tilted her head slightly toward Mason, seeking his opinion with a look.
Mason watched Razor's desperate, all-in performance, then glanced at Emily beside him, whose eyes grew wider at the mention of "Crown of Splendor" and the string of (slightly mangled) big names. He felt a flicker of amusement but knew this could be a genuinely unexpected opportunity for Emily. He gave Sophia a slight, imperceptible nod.
Having Mason's tacit approval, Sophia turned her attention back to Razor, her tone still even. "The venue and the opportunity are your offered gesture of sincerity. As for the actual distress, unlawful detention, and loss Miss Emily suffered tonight, how do you intend to compensate?"
Razor understood immediately—this was about tangible "damages." He declared without hesitation: "Compensation! Absolutely! I... I will personally provide a one-time compensation of fifty... no... one million dollars to Miss Emily! For emotional distress, and to support her studies and music career! Tonight, no, within the hour, I'll have it delivered!"
One million dollars! Emily gasped, her legs going weak. She steadied herself by holding onto Mason's arm. The figure was astronomical to her.
Sophia showed no reaction to the sum, as if it were merely a reasonable offer. She looked at Emily again, her voice gentle. "Emily, this is the compensation and apology proposed by Mr. Garcia. Whether to accept the opportunity at 'Crown of Splendor' and the funds is entirely your decision. Don't feel pressured. Follow your own mind."
Emily looked into Sophia's calm, powerful eyes, then at Mason's encouraging gaze, and finally at the gang boss kneeling on the ground, now the picture of "sincerity." A strange courage rose within her. She knew this could be a turning point that changed her life.
She took a deep breath, straightened her posture. Though her voice still trembled slightly, it was clear. "I... I'd like to accept this opportunity. And thank you... Mr. Garcia, for the compensation. I'll do my best."
Razor, hearing this, let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Miss Emily, for giving me this chance to make things right! Don't worry, everything will be first-class! You won't be disappointed!"
---
Seeing this settled, Sophia said nothing more, giving a slight signal to a bodyguard behind her. The bodyguard nodded and murmured into his earpiece. Soon, another low-key yet equally luxurious Mercedes sedan glided smoothly to the curb.
"Emily, you need rest, and time to process everything that happened tonight," Sophia said to her. "This car will take you safely home. Regarding the club and the compensation specifics, professionals will contact you tomorrow with formal documents to ensure your interests are protected throughout. Don't worry."
Emily, moved beyond words, could only nod repeatedly. Led politely by a bodyguard, she got into the Mercedes. The car pulled away silently, merging into the Los Angeles night.
Only after dealing with Emily did Sophia turn her cold gaze back to Razor. "You got lucky today. Mason wasn't hurt, and I can't be bothered with you further. But from now on, Mason Cooper's safety in Los Angeles is your responsibility. If he loses a single hair, I'm holding you accountable."
"Yes! I will absolutely protect Mr. Cooper!" Razor assured repeatedly.
Satisfied, Sophia nodded and turned to Mason. "Let's go. This place is a mess."
Mason nodded, giving Razor one last look. Razor was looking back at him, the earlier ferocity and anger gone, replaced by abject pleading, deep awe, and a desperate urgency to cling to this lifeline.
Mason was silent for a few seconds, then spoke slowly, his voice calm:
"I can let you work for me."
The words were quiet, but to Razor, they were thunderous, heavenly! He snapped his head up, his rain-soaked, sweat-streaked, mud-smeared face a mess. His eyes, used to projecting menace, now blazed with indescribable, wild hope, like a drowning man grasping the last floating piece of wreckage.
"You name it, Mr. Cooper! Any condition! Any demand! If you'll take me on, my life, everything I have, it's yours! From this moment on, if you tell me to go east, I won't look west! If you tell me to stand and die, I won't die on my knees!"
His voice shook with pain and adrenaline, but every word was firm. He knew this was the final chance, the only chance. Gaining Mason's acceptance meant gaining the Rockefeller family's "pardon," and maybe even... stepping into a world he'd never imagined.
Mason's gaze swept over him calmly, over the surrounding, battered gang members, over the street soaked with blood and rain, finally settling back on Razor's pleading face. He didn't offer lofty talk about going straight or legitimate business—that was too distant, too unrealistic. He just said slowly, in an inscrutably detached tone:
"Show me."
Four words. Light, no concrete promise, no explicit rules, no carrot dangled. But those four words made Razor's heart clench tighter than any stern lecture or complex contract. "Show me"—it meant he hadn't truly earned acceptance yet. He was on probation. His past, his so-called empire, might mean nothing to this young man. He had to prove his worth anew. But it also meant... opportunity! If he proved himself, he might really step into that world.
Having spoken, Mason looked away from him as if finishing a trivial task. He turned to Sophia and reached out his arm naturally. Sophia gave him a small smile, breathtaking in the dim light. She placed her hand on his arm, and together they turned, walking with deliberate ease under a bodyguard's black umbrella toward the central Rolls-Royce Cullinan. Their silhouettes against the fading twilight and rain seemed tall and distant, as if from another world.
---
Razor remained kneeling, rainwater dripping from his hair and nose. Watching the two figures about to get into the car, a desperate, urgent need to seize something surged within him. He knew if he let them leave like this, he might truly lose this chance to "follow."
Just as Mason held the car door open for Sophia and she was about to get in—
"Wait!" Razor roared with all his might, ignoring the searing pain from his shattered wrist, using his good hand to push himself up, staggering to his feet. He turned to his surroundings—his shell-shocked inner circle, the bruised and dazed fighters just getting up, the drivers and perimeter men who had witnessed everything from a distance—and with his hoarse but carrying voice, as if issuing the most critical, life-or-death gang decree, he pronounced each word with absolute finality:
"Everyone listen up! Pay attention!"
He pointed a trembling finger—shaking from pain, adrenaline, and a near-fanatic fervor—at Mason's retreating back.
"From today! From this moment! Mason Cooper!"
He drew a ragged breath, his chest heaving, and shouted the declaration that would decide his future and reshape the landscape of LA's underworld:
"He's not just our most honored guest! He's my boss! Ray 'Razor' Garcia's boss! He's the boss of everyone here! The one and only boss!"
The words exploded on the wet street, jolting everyone from their stupor, shock, and confusion.
"From now on, Mr. Cooper's word is the only law for 'Razor'! If anyone shows him the slightest disrespect, hesitates on his order for a second, I'll handle them myself! Personally! Understood?!"
A brief, dead silence followed. Then, the hundred-plus men remaining on the street, regardless of injuries or inner turmoil, driven by raw survival instinct and decades of ingrained fear of Razor, shouted back with all their might:
"Understood! Boss!"
Unsure what else to call Mason, they defaulted to the familiar title. But in that moment, everyone knew—the sky over LA's underworld had truly changed.
The collective shout formed a dull, violent wave of sound, dispersing the last of the rainy day's gloom but bringing a deeper tremor, born from the soul-shaking overturn of power.
Razor, spent by the effort, staggered, almost falling again, but forced himself upright, breathing heavily like a wounded bull. He turned toward the Rolls-Royce. Mason was already getting in, seemingly unmoved by the frenzied declaration behind him. Sophia was seated inside, looking out from the half-lowered window with a calm, profound glance that seemed to say: Remember what you said today.
Razor said nothing more. He just stared with eyes reignited by a feverish, almost obsessive light, boring into Mason's figure as if to sear it into his soul. Then, in full view of his men, his enemies, every witness, he slowly, deliberately, went down on one knee again—this time not from coercion or fear, but in an oath of fealty. Even though Mason didn't look back, didn't promise anything, didn't even pause.
The rain had nearly stopped, leaving only stray droplets. To the west, a last, stubborn shaft of crimson-gold sunset broke through a gap in the heavy clouds. The light, like a master spotlight, pierced the dispersing mist and bathed the wet street, falling precisely on the kneeling Razor and outlining the sleek, aristocratic lines of the Rolls-Royce, finally gathering around Mason's frame as he entered the vehicle, crowning him in a halo of divine gold.
The car door closed with a solid, final thunk, seeming to punctuate the night's events. The V12 engine rumbled with low power. The Rolls-Royce pulled away, smooth as a ship on calm water, driving into that miraculous sunset glow, leaving behind the kneeling Razor, the standing men, the littered street, the scent of violence, and the end of one era and the uncertain dawn of another, all fading into the deep violet twilight descending over Los Angeles.
---
Razor remained kneeling for a long time. He knelt in the cold puddles, the pain in his wrist throbbing, soaked and battered. But he paid it no mind. He just stared fixedly at where the car had disappeared, his eyes a complex mix—profound relief, bone-deep fear, utter submission, awe of an unknown power, and a gambler's wild excitement and anticipation.
This young man... Mason Cooper... who was he?
A dragon crossing the river? A hidden master? A proxy for a powerful family? Or... something else, something beyond imagining?
He didn't know, and didn't need to fully know. He only knew one thing now: Ray "Razor" Garcia, who had ruled a corner of LA for thirty years, had tonight staked his life, his everything, his whole crew's future, on this seemingly ordinary young man.
Whether it led to fortune or ruin, to greater heights or deeper depths, only time would tell.
Night had fully fallen. The city lights came on, LA beginning to glow with its usual, deceptive charm. On Whittier Boulevard, Razor's men started quietly cleaning up—loading the wounded, scrubbing blood from the asphalt, picking up debris—as if the night's turmoil had never happened.
Slowly, painfully, Razor pushed himself to his feet, wiping his face with his left hand. He glanced at his grotesquely bent right wrist and said coldly to the men gathering around him, "Get me to a hospital. Then, make a list of every man who was here tonight. Starting tomorrow, 'Razor' operates by new rules."
"Yes, boss!" the men replied respectfully, but their eyes held something new—awe for the young man who hadn't looked back, and uncertainty about the future.
Razor took one last look at the corner where Mason had vanished, murmuring under his breath, as if making a vow, or perhaps convincing himself:
"Mason Cooper..."