I became a son-in-law in the United States

Chapter 27 Let go of that girl

Just when everyone thought Alice was about to be in big trouble, suddenly, another upright voice rang out from the crowd.

"Hassiter!"

After saying that, Luther paused, realizing he might have mispronounced the slogan, and quickly corrected himself, saying, "Let go of that girl!"

His voice wasn't loud, but it was very penetrating, and he had the unique temperament of a soldier.

The sound was like a pebble falling into a calm lake, instantly creating ripples.

Although the music was still playing on the dance floor, people's attention was clearly no longer on their dance partners.

The entangled couple stopped thrusting, and their hands came out from under their skirts, leaving many people with their wine glasses hanging in the air.

Some people were whispering to each other, while others were already standing on tiptoe to peek, trying to see clearly what was happening.

After a few seconds of silence, everyone's eyes were fixed on Luther's defensive line.

The bewildered brother-in-law looked over, the helpless Tom Flint looked over, and Sam and Jim also had different expressions. Even the men and women who were groping each other in the corner stopped and craned their necks to look this way.

Lowell III snapped out of his daze and looked over as well.

Startled, he gripped Alice's hand even tighter.

Then he began to scrutinize Luther, from head to toe, then from toe to head, and finally back to his face.

Luther stood two or three steps away from him, head held high, spine straight, chin slightly raised.

He dressed simply today, but because he's handsome, even though his clothes weren't expensive, his overall demeanor was quite impressive.

Especially his face with Germanic features from that battle—beautiful yet powerful, with a roguish charm.

Seeing Luther's intimidating demeanor, Lowell and his two henchmen were taken aback. Not out of fear, but because Luther's aura was indeed extraordinary.

Despite this, Lowell wasn't worried at all. In Boston, as long as you weren't a blue-blooded aristocrat or part of the WASP inner circle, he had nothing to worry about.

He smiled, still maintaining his condescending demeanor, and threatened Luther:

"You know, in Boston, nobody dares to rebel..."

But he didn't finish his sentence.

Suddenly a scream rang out—not Alice's, but Lowell's own.

Because at that moment, Luther was moved.

His movements were incredibly fast, like a spring compressed to its limit suddenly snapping open. His left hand gripped Lowell's outstretched right wrist, his fingers tightening like iron clamps, while his body turned slightly to the side, his right hand slipping under Lowell's elbow joint and then lifting it upwards.

A standard dragon claw hand.

Lowell didn't think much of it at first, but how could he possibly understand the profound depth of the Dragon Claw Hand?

As Luther exerted a little force, a sharp pain shot through his lower body.

In an instant, his face turned from white to red, then from red to purple. He was in so much pain that he was grimacing and tears were about to fall.

His lips were trembling, and he could no longer utter a complete sentence.

"You...you motherfucker..."

Luther tightened his grip, lowered his head slightly, brought Lowell closer to his face, and smiled, saying:

"Mr. Lowell, do you consider yourself so noble?"

Lowell was in so much pain he wanted to cry, veins bulging on his forehead, but there was no pleading in his gray-blue eyes. Instead, they seemed to be burning with an almost insane rage.

"I'll kill you!" His voice was shrill from the pain, like a rooster being choked. "I'll use the power of my family! How dare you disrespect me! I am a member of the Lowell family!"

When he uttered the words "Lowell family," his anger reached its peak.

In Boston, no one would dare treat the Lowell family children like that; most people wouldn't even dare to look them in the eye, but this guy actually went ahead and hit them.

If Luther had used just a little more force, Lowell's joints would have been snapped.

But Luther paid no attention to any of that; he smiled and said to Lowell:

"You just called them Irish whores, so I'd like to ask you, Mr. Lowell, what makes you think you're superior to others? Is it your bloodline? Or the ticket your ancestors bought on the Mayflower?"

Luther spoke clearly and asked probing questions thoroughly, so everyone understood him perfectly.

The magical power of the word "Lowell" seems to have lost its effect on him.

The two henchmen were also dumbfounded, because this was the first time in their lives that someone had questioned their origins and background.

Because no one has ever dared to do that before.

Throughout Lowell's past twenty years, everyone has treated him with utmost respect.

The servants bowed, the students bowed, the teachers marked the grades with an A, and even the professors smiled and said, "Mr. Lowell, what insightful opinion do you have?"

He was used to that respect, that fear, that feeling of being the center of attention wherever he went.

But now, someone is holding his arm and asking him in an almost mocking tone, "What makes you so superior?"

This question itself was offensive to him.

In Boston, and throughout the United States, the blue-blooded aristocracy were not to be offended.

Lowell could no longer contain himself. He turned to his two stunned henchmen and yelled, "Attack! Kill him!"

Upon hearing this, the two lackeys finally came to their senses.

One was tall and thin, the other short and stocky; both were Lowell's Harvard classmates and wore badges indicating they were members of the "Pig Club."

The two men exchanged a glance, the tall, thin one swallowed hard, and the short, stocky one clenched his fists, then charged forward at the same time.

The two men, one on the left and one on the right, were throwing hooks and kicks, looking quite intimidating.

Seeing this, Luther leaned back slightly and easily dodged the punch.

Immediately afterwards, Luther kept his left foot still, raised his right foot, and kicked the tall, thin follower's calf.

The force wasn't great, but the location was tricky, hitting the ligament on the inside of the knee.

The tall, thin follower let out a cry of "Ah!" and, as if his support had been removed, he knelt down on one knee on the floor.

The short, stocky one seized the opportunity to pounce on Luther and try to hug him around the waist.

His plan was—since I can't beat you, I'll keep you occupied until Lowell gets away.

But Luther didn't give him that chance. He freed his left hand, grabbed the short, stocky henchman's outstretched wrist, and pulled him forward a step by step.

The short, stocky follower lost his balance and fell forward, his head hitting the armrest of the booth next to him.

The metal handrail made a dull thud, and he squatted down, clutching his forehead and groaning in pain.

Within five seconds, both of them were lying on the ground.

The scene fell silent again, this time not out of surprise, but out of shock.

In Boston, someone actually beat up members of the top fraternity.

This feels like a school bully who has been running rampant for years being beaten up by a freshman who just enrolled, and beaten up badly.

A few seconds later, someone in the crowd exclaimed, "My God!"