Chapter 4
The bright, airy lighting of the gallery felt suddenly suffocating. Iona moved closer to Cormac, still supporting his arm, her body rigid with tension. She could feel the lethal, coiled energy radiating from the man beside her.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Gareth wheezed, straightening his expensive suit jacket. "The door probably caught a draft."
"Are you prepared to die for a draft, cousin?" Cormac asked softly.
He did not wait for an answer. Cormac moved with absolute, predatory grace. He released Iona's hand and strode past the bodyguards, ignoring them entirely. His polished leather shoes made no sound on the carpet as he approached the heavy mahogany doors of the study.
The sixty guests watched in terrified silence as the Mafia boss reached out and gripped the brass handle. He threw the doors open, the wood cracking loudly against the interior walls.
The study was dark, the curtains drawn, but the light from the gallery spilled across the rich leather furniture and the massive oak desk. Standing near the open wall safe, frozen in the act of slipping a thick Manila envelope into his jacket, was a young, unfamiliar man in a catering uniform.
The caterer looked up, his eyes wide with sheer panic as he stared down the barrel of Cormac's cold fury.
"Did Gareth promise you enough money to buy a second life?" Cormac inquired, stepping into the room.
The caterer didn't speak. He dropped the envelope onto the floor and bolted toward the secondary service exit at the back of the study.
Cormac didn't run after him. He simply reached inside his tailored suit jacket, his tattooed fingers wrapping around the grip of a suppressed pistol. He drew the weapon smoothly and fired twice in rapid succession.
The silenced shots were quiet, sharp thwacks that barely disturbed the silence of the gallery outside. The caterer collapsed instantly near the service door, two bullets shattering his kneecaps. His agonizing screams filled the dark study.
Cormac holstered the weapon, his breathing entirely steady. He walked over to the dropped envelope, picked it up, and turned back toward the gallery.
He emerged into the bright, cinematic light, tossing the heavy envelope onto a nearby velvet bench. He looked directly at Gareth.
"The transition ledgers," Cormac stated. "Did you truly believe you could steal the financial architecture of this syndicate while I was distracted by a brawl on a carpet?"
Gareth’s face drained of color. He took a slow step backward, bumping into the rolling stage dolly. The two bodyguards exchanged a nervous glance, realizing the operation had catastrophically failed.
"It was a precaution, Ansel," Gareth stammered, using his cousin's middle name in a desperate attempt at familiarity. "You've been distracted lately. I needed to ensure the family's assets were secure."
"Do you believe treason is a valid form of security?" Cormac asked, his deep voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the room.
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He turned his head slowly, looking at the sixty elite guests who were witnessing the coup attempt.
"Have you all seen enough to understand the penalty for challenging this house?" Cormac asked the room at large.
