Chapter 6
Dashiell stared at the flame of the silver lighter, his eyes wide with primal terror. He knew the stories of how Emrys dealt with traitors in the early days of his reign, long before the tailored suits and the polished gala events. The man standing over him was not a forgiving relative; he was the executioner of the syndicate.
“I'll give you everything!” Dashiell cried, tears streaming down his face, completely abandoning any pretense of dignity. “I'll sign over my shares of the estate! I'll give you the offshore accounts! Just let me leave the country, Emrys! You’ll never see me again, I swear to God!”
Emrys snapped the lighter shut, the sharp metallic click echoing through the silent, terrified ballroom. The sixty guests remained huddled behind overturned tables, watching the brutal dismantling of a high-ranking family member.
“Do you honestly believe I require your stolen money to run my empire?” Emrys asked, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.
He looked over his shoulder at his loyal enforcers, who were currently restraining the rescued fiancée and the two groaning bodyguards.
“Take him to the soundproof holding cells in the sub-basement,” Emrys ordered smoothly. “And ensure the temperature is dropped to freezing. Let him experience the chill of the floorboards he is so fond of.”
Three enforcers marched forward immediately. They hauled Dashiell roughly to his feet by the arms of his expensive formal suit. Dashiell thrashed weakly, his polished shoes slipping on the wet floorboards as they dragged him away.
“You’re making a mistake!” Dashiell shrieked, his voice echoing hysterically as they hauled him toward the heavy oak doors. “The other families will see this as weakness! You are destroying the syndicate from the inside!”
“Is it weakness to eradicate a cancer, Dashiell, or is it the only way to ensure survival?” Emrys asked to his retreating back.
The heavy doors opened briefly, swallowing the frantic screams of the estate administrator, before slamming shut and locking once more.
Emrys turned his attention to the woman wrapped in the heavy coat. She was trembling violently, staring blankly at the splintered hole in the floor. Emrys walked over to her, his sharp jawline setting into a mask of restrained empathy. He knelt beside her, keeping a respectful distance.
“Are you severely injured, or simply suffering from the cold and the dark?” Emrys asked softly.
The woman looked at him, her eyes vacant and haunted. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a dry, rattling sob escaped. She clutched the torn, filthy white lace of her veil against her chest.
“Get the estate doctor immediately,” Emrys commanded the nearest enforcer. “And prepare the secure guest wing for her recovery.”
Coralie watched the exchange from a few feet away. She saw the profound sadness in Emrys’s dark eyes, the heavy burden of leadership pressing down on his broad shoulders. She wanted nothing more than to step forward and comfort him, to hold his injured hand again, but she knew her place. She was just a maid, and he had a broken fiancée to care for.
May you like
But as the enforcers gently guided the traumatized woman out of the ballroom, Emrys did not follow her. He stood up slowly, the cinematic light catching the artistic tattoos on his hands. He turned around, his gaze sweeping the wreckage of the ballroom, until his dark eyes locked entirely on Coralie.
“Are you unharmed, Coralie?” Emrys asked, his deep voice carrying a quiet, intense focus.
