Fintan Faircroft thrust a damp mop into syndicate boss Aldous Faircroft’s chest

The bright, luminous lighting of the ballroom offered no place to hide from the escalating confrontation. The fifty guests, donors, and capos held their breath. Fintan’s two bodyguards shifted their weight, their hands resting near their suit jackets, ready to draw their weapons at a moment's notice.

Fintan, emboldened by Aldous’s lack of immediate physical retaliation, took another aggressive step forward. He reached out and violently grabbed Aldous’s black bow tie, jerking it hard to the side. The silk knot twisted, pulling the collar of Aldous’s shirt askew and exposing more of the intricate, artistic tattoos on his neck.

"You bought this ballroom," Fintan said, his voice dripping with absolute contempt, his face inches from his cousin's. "You bought the suits, the ring, the men. But you’ll never belong. You are nothing but a common street rat wearing a crown."

Aldous did not flinch. His cold, dark eyes bored into Fintan’s. "Release my tie, Fintan. This is your final warning."

"Or what?" Fintan sneered, his breath hot and reeking of whiskey. "You're too worried about looking civilized in front of the donors to do a damn thing."

Fintan tightened his grip on Aldous’s collar with his left hand. With his right, he slowly, deliberately drew back his fist, preparing to strike the boss directly in the face in front of the entire syndicate.

"Don't!" Carys cried out, her voice breaking the heavy silence of the room.

"Shut your mouth, you little whore!" Fintan spat, not looking at her, his fist fully cocked back.

The two bodyguards stepped forward, closing the distance to ensure no one interfered with their employer’s strike.

Carys didn't think. The sheer terror of seeing Aldous about to be struck violently overrode her fear of the massive men surrounding them. She spun around, her black maid dress swirling around her legs, and reached blindly toward the cleaning trolley.

Her hands wrapped tightly around the thick wooden shaft of the mop.

"Hey, step back!" the white American bodyguard barked, reaching out to grab Carys's shoulder.

But he was a second too late.

Carys pulled the mop from the trolley. She gripped the wooden shaft with both of her small hands. She planted her flat shoes firmly against the polished marble floor, twisted her slender hips, and swung the heavy wooden handle with every single ounce of adrenaline and strength pumping through her veins.