Chapter 9
"You need us!" Rosalind screamed, slamming her manicured hands down on the gold-rimmed porcelain, rattling her crystal wine glass. "Without the Shaw family, the border factions will tear you apart! You are making a catastrophic mistake! You are choosing a servant over a queen!"
Damien’s jaw locked. The very short stubble on his face bristled as he absorbed the insult directed at the woman standing behind him. He did not raise his voice. He did not reach for a weapon. His restraint was a masterclass in terror.
"Do you believe a queen commands respect through shattered glass and cowardice?" Damien inquired softly.
He slowly swept his gaze across the room, taking in the numerous capos, donors, and relatives sitting frozen at the long banquet table. His eyes locked onto Marcus, his most trusted lieutenant.
"Have you all finished your meals?" Damien asked the room at large.
It was phrased as a polite question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable and absolute.
Chairs scraped violently against the polished marble floors as the fifty guests practically scrambled to their feet. There were no polite farewells, no lingering handshakes. Men in tailored suits and women in expensive evening gowns fled the bright, elegant room with frantic urgency, eager to escape the blast radius of Damien Ashford’s wrath.
"What are you doing?!" Rosalind shrieked, watching her audience, her leverage, and her protection sprint for the heavy mahogany doors. "You can't just dismiss them! My family's capos are in this room!"
The men loyal to the Shaw family did not stay. They took one look at the cold, calculating fury in Damien's eyes and the armed men loyal to the Ashford syndicate stepping out from the shadows, and they ran just as fast as the civilians.
Within ninety seconds, the expansive dining hall was completely empty, save for Damien, Rosalind, Alice, Jamie, and four heavily armed Ashford bodyguards.
The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, sealing the room and locking Rosalind inside with her greatest nightmare.
"Did you truly believe you could run a psychological and physical torture operation against my household and remain seated at my table?" Damien asked, turning his terrifying focus entirely back to the woman in the emerald gown.
Rosalind backed away from the table, her heels clicking unsteadily against the marble floor. She wrapped her arms around her waist, a defensive posture that crushed the luxurious satin of her expensive gown. Her diamond earrings shook as she wept, her carefully constructed, elegant public manner entirely destroyed.
"Damien, you cannot believe this is real," Rosalind sobbed, her chest heaving as she tried to backpedal. "We are supposed to unite our syndicates! You cannot throw all of that away! I will apologize to her!"
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Damien stood immovably in his tailored dark three-piece suit. He kept his broad shoulders squarely between his son and the woman who had threatened them.
"Are you prepared to remove the ring from your finger, Rosalind, or must I cut it from your hand?" Damien asked, his deep voice carrying a measured, lethal calm.
