His older cousin Clive violently pulled the chair backward

The ballroom of the Bellcroft estate was awash in bright, cinematic light, the sprawling space a masterclass in American opulence. Tall windows let in the cool evening, highlighting the absence of any yellow tint in the grand hall. Fifty wedding guests and staff moved like elegant phantoms around the crowded banquet tables, sipping champagne and waiting for the rehearsal dinner to commence.

At the center of it all was Lachlan Bellcroft. Thirty-two years old, he possessed the rugged, undeniably masculine presence of a mafia boss. His dark hair was swept back flawlessly over a sharp jawline dusted with neat stubble. Refined artistic tattoos graced his neck and hands, stark against the crisp cuffs of his tailored dark suit. A heavy family signet ring and a luxury wristwatch completed the image of absolute, terrifying authority.

But tonight was not a night for authority; it was a night for family politics.

As Lachlan approached the head table, preparing to take his seat, his older cousin, Clive, moved with sudden, brutal violence. Forty-four years old, wearing an expensive tuxedo that stretched slightly over his frame, Clive stepped behind Lachlan. Just as Lachlan began to lower his weight, Clive violently pulled the heavy mahogany chair backward.

The movement was unexpected and flawless. Lachlan’s center of gravity vanished. He crashed hard onto the polished marble floor, the heavy impact reverberating through his spine. The crystal glass he had been holding shattered violently beside him, sending shards skittering across the pristine stone.

A collective gasp swept through the immediate vicinity, followed instantly by the cruel, mocking laughter of several older relatives.

Clive stepped forward, his polished shoes crunching on a piece of broken crystal. He pointed down at his fallen cousin, his American accent laced with venomous triumph.

“Thieves eat with the servants,” Clive announced loudly.

From the periphery of the room, Annalise Rowden moved without hesitation. At twenty-five, the housemaid was a vision of delicate, breathtaking beauty. Her dark hair was neatly pinned beneath a white lace maid headband, and the starched white apron of her black maid dress snapped as she rushed forward.

She dropped to her knees on the hard marble, entirely unbothered by the broken glass surrounding them. Her expressive eyes, usually guarded, were wide with frantic worry. She reached out, her small hands gently supporting Lachlan’s broad shoulder, checking his elbow where it had struck the floor.

Her lips trembled as she looked into the face of the most dangerous man in the city.