Max stepped to Alfred's side, his own weapon drawn but held discreetly at his side. "The cable didn't snap, Boss. It was sheared. Clean cut. High-tension wire-cutters. Someone was on the catwalks three minutes ago."
Alfred looked up at the dark, arched rafters of the Opera House. His eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "Find the maintenance logs. Check every camera. I want the names of every person who had access to that ceiling tonight."
He turned his gaze toward the crowd. The "birching" socialites who had whispered about Sofia were now huddled together, weeping in terror. The powerful men who had desired her were looking at the floor, praying they weren't the ones Alfred suspected.
"Listen to me carefully," Alfred said, his voice echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling. "Someone in this room thought they could touch what is mine. Someone thought they could turn a dance into a funeral. You have ten minutes to tell me who it was. After ten minutes, I stop asking nicely."
The air in the room grew cold. Alfred paced the perimeter of the wreckage, his presence so suffocating that people were holding their breath. He was the judge, the jury, and the executioner, and he didn't care about the laws of the city tonight. He only cared about the woman who had almost been crushed under five hundred pounds of glass.
"Boss," Max whispered, pressing an earpiece to his head. "We've got a runner. Back service entrance. Red hair, maintenance jumpsuit."
Alfred didn't hesitate. He headed for the service door, his pace a lethal, steady stride. "Max, keep this room under guard. If anyone moves, break their legs. I'm going to handle the rat myself."
As Alfred disappeared into the dark service tunnels of the Opera House, the guests realized the terrifying truth: the chandelier wasn't the only thing that had fallen tonight. The thin veil of civilization had been torn away, and they were all about to witness the true cost of crossing the man who loved Sofia.
The service tunnels of the Metropolitan Opera House were a labyrinth of rusted pipes, hissing steam, and the smell of ancient dust. Far above, the muffled screams of the elite still echoed, but down here, in the bowels of the building, the air was thick with the scent of an impending kill.
Alfred moved through the dark like a predator that had been born in it. He had discarded his tuxedo jacket, his white silk shirt now stained with the soot of the tunnels and the dried blood from his cheek.
He didn't run; he didn't need to. He knew the layout of this city better than the men who built it. He knew exactly where a "rat" would try to find light.
At the end of a long, dripping corridor near the boiler room, a heavy metal door clattered. A man in a grease-stained maintenance jumpsuit was fumbling with a ring of keys, his hands shaking so violently they chimed like funeral bells. His red hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.
"Looking for a way out?" Alfred's voice dropped into the silence like a guillotine blade.
The saboteur spun around, dropping the keys. He pulled a serrated folding knife from his pocket, his breath coming in jagged, terrified hitches. "Stay back! I was just doing a job! I don't even know who she is!"
Alfred stepped into the flickering light of a bare yellow bulb. His expression wasn't angry anymore—it was empty. A terrifying, hollow void that was far worse than rage.
"That is your first mistake," Alfred murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "You touched the only thing in this world that is holy to me. And you didn't even bother to learn her name."
The man lunged, a desperate, amateurish swing of the knife. Alfred didn't even flinch. He caught the man's wrist mid-air, the sound of bone snapping like a dry twig echoing off the concrete walls. The knife clattered to the floor.
"AAAGH!" The man fell to his knees,
clutching his shattered arm.
Alfred didn't stop. He grabbed the man by the throat, hoisting him up until his boots dangled inches off the floor. He slammed him back against a scorching steam pipe. The man screamed as the heat seared through his jumpsuit, but Alfred's grip only tightened.
"Who sent you?" Alfred asked, his face inches from the man's. "Was it the remnants of Alex's crew? Or one of the senators upstairs who thinks they can play God?"
"I... I can't... please..."
Alfred let go, letting the man slump to the floor, but before he could crawl away, Alfred brought his heavy boot down on the man's ankle. Another sickening crack.
"You tried to crush her under five hundred pounds of glass," Alfred whispered, leaning over him. "I think it's only fair that you feel the weight of your choices, piece by piece."
What followed was not a fight; it was an execution. Alfred utilized the environment with a clinical, terrifying efficiency. He used the heavy iron wrenches from the workbench, the jagged edges of the broken steam valves, and his own bare hands. He didn't use his gun. A bullet was too fast. A bullet was a mercy.
Every time the man tried to beg, Alfred silenced him with a blow that shattered teeth.
He broke every finger that had touched the high-tension wire-cutters.
Finally, Alfred dragged the broken, sobbing wreck of a man toward the massive industrial furnace used for the building's heating system.
The man looked up, his eyes swollen shut, blood pooling on the concrete beneath him. "Please... just kill me..."
Alfred looked down at him, his eyes as cold as the bottom of a grave.
"You wanted to turn a dance into a funeral, didn't you? I'm just making sure you're the one who attends it."
With a surge of strength, Alfred heaved the man toward the heavy iron grate of the furnace intake. He didn't look back as the shadows swallowed the saboteur. He didn't listen to the final, muffled plea.