Chapter 2
The music swelled, a bright, sweeping orchestral piece that filled the airy space of the ballroom. The clean, white marble floors gleamed as couples began to drift toward the center of the room. Aldous adjusted his black bow tie, preparing to make his rounds among the wealthy donors. But as he approached the entrance to the dance floor, a shadow fell across his path.
Fintan Faircroft stepped out from the crowd, blocking Aldous’s way. At forty-three, Fintan was Aldous’s older cousin and a senior associate who had never forgiven the syndicate for passing him over. Fintan wore an expensive, custom-tailored tuxedo that looked slightly too tight across his chest, and a luxury wristwatch that flashed ostentatiously under the chandeliers. He was flanked by two massive bodyguards in dark suits—one Black American and one white American.
"Leaving the conversation so soon, little cousin?" Fintan asked, a mocking sneer twisting his features.
"I have guests to entertain, Fintan," Aldous said, his tone perfectly flat. "Move aside."
"Entertain? You look like you're heading for the service corridors to fraternize with the maids again," Fintan sneered, taking a step closer. "It’s embarrassing, Aldous. The boss of the Faircroft family, making heart-eyes at a girl who scrubs toilets for a living."
"My private life is not subject to your review," Aldous replied, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Do you have business with me, or are you simply looking for a reason to lose your teeth tonight?"
"I have business," Fintan said, his voice rising enough to draw the attention of the nearest capos. "The men are talking, Aldous. They see a soft leader. They see a man who forgets that this family was built on blood, not charity galas and sympathy for the working class."
"This family was built by my father," Aldous corrected him, stepping into Fintan’s personal space. "A man who worked on his hands and knees before he built an empire. You inherited your wealth, Fintan. I earned my right to rule."
"You earned nothing!" Fintan hissed, his face flushing a furious red. "You are a mutt. Your father married a woman beneath him, and it tainted the bloodline. You don't belong in this tuxedo, and you don't belong at the head of this table."
"Step back, Fintan," Aldous warned, his deep voice dropping an octave. "Before I remind you exactly why I hold the seat."
To their right, parked beside the service doorway, was a heavy plastic cleaning trolley. It held a wooden-handled mop, several plastic buckets, and stacks of folded clean cloths. Carys had left it there momentarily to assist a guest.
May you like
Fintan’s eyes darted to the trolley. A cruel, vindictive light sparked in his eyes as he recognized an opportunity for public humiliation.
"You want to talk about your father's legacy?" Fintan asked, a dark, wicked smile spreading across his face. "Let me show everyone exactly what your legacy is, cousin."
