Chapter 5: The Mayor Returns to Power

There was no mistaking him. The swagger, the grin, the way he filled up a room—Robert was back, and the world would have to adjust.

But how can someone become young again?

The question hung in the air, unspoken but heavy. Some whispered about miracles, others about dark deals. No one had an answer.

Could it really be fate?

For a moment, Quentin felt a chill run down his spine. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but this was enough to make anyone wonder.

When this thought popped into Quentin’s mind, he was startled: even he thought this—how many in Summers could escape this idea?

He glanced at his advisors, saw the same doubt in their eyes. The legend of Robert Hastings was growing by the minute.

Robert just stared at Quentin, smiling brilliantly.

He held Quentin’s gaze, daring him to look away. The message was clear: Robert was back, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

Quentin gritted his teeth, but still had to smile, exchange pleasantries, and sent Robert to a luxurious mansion to rest.

The hospitality was lavish—fine linens, fresh flowers, the best bourbon money could buy. But everywhere he went, Robert could feel eyes on him, suspicion in the air.

Late at night, Quentin tossed and turned, wondering whether to hold the banquet tomorrow. If he did, what if Robert played some supernatural tricks and shook people’s hearts?

He stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. Every scenario played out in his mind, each one worse than the last. “Damn it,” he muttered, “why couldn’t he just stay dead?”

At dawn, Quentin got up, paced in the hall, his green eyes darting around.

He sipped coffee that had gone cold, pacing back and forth. The servants kept their distance, sensing his foul mood.

The candlelight flickered, Quentin suddenly stopped.

He paused, a thought striking him like a bolt of lightning. Maybe, just maybe, he was overthinking this.

Quentin laughed, louder and louder, echoing through the hills of Mainfield. He figured it out: So what if you have fate on your side? With you and Charles’s laws and orders in Silver Hollow, if you really enter the South, the old families will eat you alive.

He threw back his head and laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls. “Let him come,” he said. “Let him try. The old guard won’t let him take a damn thing.”

Fate? If you touch their money and land, they’ll fight fate itself!

He grinned, feeling a surge of confidence. Money and power—that’s what ruled the South, not omens or miracles.

Quentin shouted to the attendant, “Pass the word, the banquet goes on, the dance goes on, tomorrow everything as usual, meet the Mayor of Silver Hollow!”

His voice rang out, sharp and commanding. The staff scurried to obey, and the wheels of Mainfield’s social machine began to turn.

The voice spread outside, into the rain.

The city buzzed with anticipation. Even the rain couldn’t dampen the excitement. People whispered about the banquet, about the miracle, about what might happen next.

A few stars peeked through the clouds, a light rain falling as Robert looked out at Oak Hill.

The night was thick with mist, the lights of the city blurring into halos. Robert stood at the window, staring out at Oak Hill, lost in thought.

Looking at Oak Hill, sharpening two blades.

He sat at a small table, whetstone in hand, working methodically. The sound of steel on stone was soothing, a ritual that calmed his nerves.

Daniel followed behind, silent, watching Robert sharpen his blade. The two stood quietly in the wind and rain, as if all the intrigues were as distant as the hills, only sparks flying from the sharpening stones.

Daniel said nothing, just watched. The rain pattered against the window, the world outside shrinking to a small, private universe.

With a clang, Robert sheathed his blade.

He stood, stretching his back. The blade slid home with a satisfying click, and for a moment, he felt ready for anything.

The thirty-year-old old wanderer stood up, turned back and smiled at Daniel: “Tomorrow at the banquet, I’ll put on a blade dance for my brothers.”

His voice was soft, but there was a promise in it. Daniel nodded, understanding without words. The past was gone, but the memory of his friends lived on.

It was a grand banquet—thirty-year-old Robert had never seen such a spectacle: flowing tuxedos and gowns, jazz and piano music. He walked through, lips almost to his ears, but there was no laughter in his eyes.

The chandeliers sparkled, the band played a slow, sultry tune. Robert moved through the crowd with easy confidence, but his eyes were distant, haunted by ghosts.

He just danced, commented, “Tsk, this music is so bland. Damn, check out the size of those chains.”

He grinned at Daniel, gesturing at the oversized jewelry some of the guests wore. “Looks like they’re trying to buy respect, not earn it.”

Daniel followed closely, watching his boss’s eyes wander over the dancers.

He kept a careful eye on Robert, ready to step in if things got out of hand. The crowd watched them, whispering behind gloved hands.

Daniel coughed twice.

It was a subtle signal, a reminder to stay focused. Robert glanced at him, nodding slightly.

Robert was still looking, even turning his head, searching for prettier girls.

He couldn’t help himself—the old habits died hard. But the joy that used to come so easily was gone, replaced by a hollow ache.

The officials of Summers were all stifling laughter, some glancing at Daniel. Daniel kept a straight face, looking at Robert, even managing a smile.

The tension in the room was palpable, but Daniel played his part, keeping up appearances for the sake of diplomacy.

As long as the boss is alive, he can do whatever he wants.

It was an unspoken rule—Robert made his own way, and everyone else just tried to keep up.

Suddenly Robert’s low voice came over.

He leaned in close, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Which one is Mike Francis? When I’m near, cough again… I don’t know him.”

The words were sharp, calculated. Daniel nodded, understanding the plan.

Daniel raised his eyebrows, nodded slightly.

He coughed again, a subtle signal. The game was on.

Walking past the long steps before the hall, past ornate screens, seeing the gems on Summers officials, more beauties and music entered his eyes, and high above, Quentin Summers was waiting, green eyes smiling, waiting for Robert.

The room was a riot of color and sound, but Robert’s focus never wavered. He scanned the crowd, taking in every detail.

Robert had never seen these things, only thirty years old, had been to Chicago, liked fine clothes, pretty girls, good music, and the attention of the crowd.

He remembered the wild nights in the city, the thrill of the chase, the taste of victory. But tonight, none of it mattered.

Now he could reach out and touch them.

He ran a hand along the edge of a silk tablecloth, feeling the texture between his fingers. It was all so real, so immediate—but it felt like it belonged to someone else.

Even after seeing so much blood later, this scene should have stirred him.

He wanted to feel something—joy, excitement, even envy. But all he felt was emptiness.

But Robert’s heart was still like dead water.

The pain was too deep, the losses too great. Nothing could fill the void left by his friends.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be excited, or didn’t like it. Turning past the screen, he wanted to say, “Damn, awesome.”

He almost said it out loud, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he just smiled, forcing himself to play the part.

Then he wanted to turn back and say, second brother, third brother, we must keep steady, can’t lose the face of Silver Hollow.