Chapter 1
The crystal chandeliers suspended above the grand banquet hall cast a bright, cinematic light over the crowded room. There was no heavy yellow cast to the illumination; instead, a soft, elegant warmth brought out the gentle golden highlights in the polished walnut furniture and the pristine white linen draping the tables. Sixty relatives, guests, and staff members of the Rothwell family gathered to celebrate the fifty-fifth birthday of Winona Rothwell, the former family matriarch. The air hummed with the melodic cadence of American accents, the clinking of crystal stemware, and the underlying, electric tension that always accompanied a gathering of the city’s most dangerous syndicate.
At the head of the main table sat Eamon Rothwell. At thirty-two, the Mafia boss commanded the room with a quiet, undeniable masculinity. He was striking, his swept-back dark hair impeccably styled, a shadow of neat stubble emphasizing his sharply defined jawline. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly. The sleeves of his suit pulled back just enough to reveal the refined, artistic tattoos spacing across his hands and fingers, matching the small ink design peeking above his collar.
"The waterfront properties are yielding higher returns than we projected, Eamon," a lieutenant noted from across the table, raising his glass. "Your new strategy is flawless."
"Are you surprised that efficiency breeds profit, Marcus?" Eamon asked, his deep, measured voice effortlessly cutting through the ambient noise of the room. He turned his family signet ring thoughtfully around his finger.
"Not at all, boss," Marcus replied quickly, a nervous smile touching his fair, rosy skin. "Just offering a compliment where it is due."
Standing a few feet away, observing the exchange with expressive, watchful eyes, was Oriana Halehurst. The twenty-five-year-old housemaid wore a classic black maid dress with a cinched waist, a crisp white apron, and a white lace maid headband over her neatly pinned hair. She held a silver tray of champagne, her posture stiff. Despite the celebratory atmosphere, her delicate features were etched with deep worry. She knew the undercurrents of the Rothwell family better than anyone, and tonight felt terrifyingly fragile. She stepped forward, treating Eamon with a gentle, protective reverence as she carefully replaced his empty water glass.
"Is the temperature in the hall to your liking, sir?" Oriana asked softly, keeping her voice low.
"Do I look uncomfortable, Oriana?" Eamon replied, the coldness in his eyes softening for a fraction of a second as he looked up at her.
"No, sir. I only wanted to be sure," she whispered, stepping back.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Winona Rothwell made her grand entrance. She wore a luxurious, sweeping birthday gown adorned with heavy pearl jewelry and glittering rings. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor. She was flanked by two massive bodyguards in dark suits and earpieces—one Black American and one white American.
The room quieted as Winona approached the head table. She did not sit in the empty chair reserved for her. Instead, she stopped directly behind Eamon.
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"A lovely party," Winona said loudly, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "But I think the seating arrangement is entirely wrong."
Before Eamon could turn around, Winona snapped her fingers. The two bodyguards lunged forward with terrifying speed. Their massive hands clamped down onto Eamon’s upper arms, pinning him violently against the back of his heavy velvet chair.
