Chapter 4
The exodus of the guests was a chaotic symphony of scraping chairs and hurried footsteps. Capos, crime bosses, and politicians abandoned their fine porcelain plates and half-empty crystal stemware. They moved with a terrified urgency, practically sprinting toward the heavy silk curtains and the grand double doors of the dining room. No one offered their goodbyes. The mafia elite knew better than to linger when Quentin Vale began to clean house.
Within two minutes, the massive, luxurious room was entirely empty, save for the four of them: Quentin, Bianca, Holly, and young Finn. The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, echoing with a hollow, terrifying finality.
"Quentin, you are making a massive mistake," Bianca whispered, her voice shaking violently as she stood up from her chair. She clutched the fabric of her sculpted garnet gown. "My family is seated in the parlor. My father will not stand for this humiliation."
Quentin did not break eye contact with her. He slowly raised his tattooed hand, resting his knuckles on the polished walnut table.
"Do you think your father's guns protect you from my judgment?" Quentin asked. His slow, controlled pauses carried the weight of an executioner's blade.
"I am your fiancée!" Bianca shrieked, losing her elegant manners entirely. She pointed a trembling finger wrapped in diamonds toward Holly. "You are taking the word of a servant and a spoiled brat over the woman who is securing your northern borders!"
Holly stood her ground, though her knees felt weak. She stepped closer to Finn, her slender figure shielding the boy. She placed her hands gently on his small, shaking shoulders.
"It's okay, Finn," Holly whispered softly, leaning down so only the boy could hear her. "You are safe now. He knows the truth."
"Did you believe I would trade my son's soul for a border dispute, Bianca?" Quentin inquired, stepping slowly around the edge of the table. His broad shoulders dominated the space, casting a long, terrifying shadow over the woman in red.
"You need me!" Bianca sobbed, real tears of panic finally spilling over her rosy cheeks as she backed away, her gown catching on a velvet chair. "I am strong enough to stand beside a king! I did what needed to be done! He is weak, Quentin! He cries all the time!"
"Is grief a weakness in your eyes, or merely an inconvenience?" Quentin asked, taking another slow, deliberate step toward her.
"He was ruining our evenings!" Bianca screamed, her true, venomous nature finally bleeding through her polished facade. "He needed to learn respect!"
"Do you demand respect through fear and satin ribbons?" Quentin asked, tilting his head slightly, the cold, perceptive eyes narrowing into dark, lethal slits.
He didn't wait for her to process the absolute lack of mercy in his gaze. He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored dark suit, his refined artistic tattoos catching the golden light, and withdrew a heavy, encrypted mobile phone.
"Are you waiting in the grand foyer, Marcus?" Quentin asked into the receiver. He paused, listening to his unseen underboss. "Will you bring two men into the dining room immediately?"
Bianca gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in sheer, unadulterated terror. She knew exactly what Marcus did for the Vale syndicate. He was the man who made Quentin’s problems disappear into the icy depths of the river.
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"No! Quentin, please!" Bianca shrieked, kicking off her expensive heels and scrambling backward across the hardwood floor. "You can't do this! I am an Ashford! My family will kill you!"
"Will they wage a war for a woman who tortures children?" Quentin asked softly, his voice completely devoid of emotion as the heavy dining room doors swung open behind him.
