Chapter 4
Davina writhed in Torin’s iron grip, her manicured nails digging fruitlessly into the tailored wool of his sleeve. The pain in her wrist was blinding, but the cold, absolute finality in his grey eyes was far more terrifying.
“Torin... you’re breaking my bones!” she whimpered, her former arrogance dissolving into pathetic, shuddering gasps. “Let me go! It’s a misunderstanding! I swear on my life, it was vitamins—peptides from Switzerland to help his circulation!”
“You swear on your life,” Torin repeated softly, his controlled cadence dropping an octave. “A life... that currently holds... no value in this room.”
With a casual, disdainful flick of his wrist, Torin released her.
Davina stumbled backward, clutching her bruised wrist against her emerald bodice, gasping for air.
Torin did not look at her as she retreated. He raised his right hand, snapping his fingers once.
From the shadows of the four archways surrounding the conservatory, eight Ashenford enforcers dressed in bespoke dark suits stepped onto the marble floor. At their head was Lucian, Torin’s second-in-command—a broad-shouldered man of fifty with a scarred jaw and dead, calculating eyes.
“Lock the exterior gates,” Torin ordered, his voice carrying effortlessly over the panicked whispers of the guests. “No vehicles leave the private drive. Cut the wireless relays. Confiscate all communications from everyone seated at this table.”
A murmur of rising panic rippled through the guests. Near the center of the table, an older man with silver hair and an expensive grey suit stood up, adjusting his silk tie with trembling hands. It was Marcus Sterling, a senior member of the syndicate's governing board and the political sponsor who had arranged Torin’s engagement to Davina six months earlier.
“Now hold on, Torin,” Sterling said, his American accent smooth, trying to inject an aura of paternal authority into the room. “Let’s not lose our heads before dinner is even served. This is an internal family grievance. Davina is from a respected bloodline. Her father gave thirty years to the Five Families. You cannot conduct an inquisition over the claims of a maid and a woman who suffers from clinical dementia!”
Torin slowly turned his body toward the elder.
He did not raise his voice. He walked down the length of the bleached oak table, his polished shoes silent against the runner. He stopped directly behind Sterling’s chair, resting his large, ink-covered hands on the carved mahogany backrest.
“Marcus,” Torin murmured, leaning down slightly until his lips were inches from the older man’s ear. “Did I ask for your counsel?”
Sterling swallowed hard, the color draining from his ruddy cheeks. “I am merely protecting the syndicate’s reputation, Torin. If the other families hear that we are executing our own brides on the word of domestic staff—”
“My father died six months ago,” Torin whispered, every word carved from glacial ice. “And forty-eight hours later, your logistics firm absorbed eighty percent of our northern pharmaceutical routes. Do you remember that meeting, Marcus?”
Sterling froze. His hands remained glued to the linen tablecloth, his breath hitching in his throat.
“I remember,” Torin continued, his thumb gently tracing the wood of the chair. “You told me it was my father’s dying wish. You told me Julian wanted the northern border consolidated under your umbrella so I could focus on the Manhattan ports.”
Torin straightened up, his slate-gray eyes sweeping over the frozen faces of the thirty dinner guests.
“Lucian,” Torin commanded quietly.
May you like
“Yes, Boss,” Lucian replied, stepping forward with his hand resting beneath his jacket.
“Bring the doctor,” Torin said. “And bring the chemist from the docks. We are going to exhume my father’s private vault.”
