Chapter 7
Quentin did not flinch. He slowly pulled his hand away from Holly’s face, his posture instantly shifting back into that of a wartime commander. The brief moment of vulnerability vanished, replaced by cold, calculating steel.
"Are the Ashford convoys already here, Marcus?" Quentin asked into the radio.
"Yes, sir," Marcus reported, his voice tight with tension. "It's Victor Ashford himself. He has thirty heavily armed men with him. He is demanding you hand over his daughter immediately, or they breach the walls."
Holly gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. The war had arrived faster than anyone anticipated. The consequences of her actions were now violently knocking on the front gates.
"Will you wait here and lock the door behind me?" Quentin asked, looking back at Holly.
"You can't go down there!" Holly pleaded in a harsh whisper, reaching out to grab his forearm. "They will kill you!"
"Do you think an army of cowards can break a fortress built by kings?" Quentin asked softly, looking down at her delicate fingers resting against his white shirt.
"They have an army, Quentin," Holly said, dropping his formal title in her panic. "Did I ruin everything? Did I start a war that will destroy this family?"
"Does a man ruin his house by taking out the trash?" Quentin inquired, a dark, terrifying warmth bleeding into his cold eyes. "Did you not simply force the poison into the light before it could kill my son?"
Holly swallowed hard, tears welling in her eyes. "Will you come back?"
"Have I ever failed to protect what belongs to me?" Quentin asked.
He gently pried her fingers from his arm, giving her hand a brief, reassuring squeeze before turning his broad shoulders toward the door. He slipped out into the hallway, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. Holly immediately threw the deadbolt, pressing her back against the wood, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm.
The grand foyer of the Vale estate was a cavernous space of polished marble and soaring archways, entirely devoid of the warmth present in the nursery above. The cascading crystal chandeliers were unlit, the only illumination coming from the harsh security floodlights outside bleeding through the high, reinforced windows.
Quentin descended the sweeping marble staircase with measured, deliberate steps. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the intricate, refined tattoos wrapping around his muscular forearms.
Standing in the center of the foyer, surrounded by six of Quentin’s heavily armed enforcers, was Victor Ashford. Bianca’s father was a ruthless, aging capo, his face flushed with arrogant rage, his heavy wool overcoat looking out of place amidst the tactical gear of the guards.
"Where is my daughter, Vale?" Victor demanded, his voice echoing loudly in the cold space. "You have lost your damn mind! You cannot hold an Ashford hostage in your own home!"
Quentin stopped on the final step, towering over the older capo. His cold, perceptive eyes analyzed Victor with the clinical detachment of a butcher observing livestock.
"Do you believe you give orders in my home, Victor?" Quentin asked, his deep voice a low, terrifying rumble.
"I am not giving orders, I am giving you a final warning!" Victor spat, taking a step forward before Marcus’s massive hand slammed into his chest, stopping him dead. "Release Bianca right now, or the alliance is dead, and we go to war."
"Are you willing to die for a woman who tortures children and manipulates kings?" Quentin asked, his jaw settling into a sharp, uncompromising line.
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Victor sneered, trying to maintain his bravado. "She was disciplining a brat! You are soft, Quentin! You are letting a spoiled child and a maid dictate the politics of the entire eastern seaboard!"
"Do you consider the premeditated abuse of my bloodline to be mere politics?" Quentin inquired, stepping off the stairs and closing the distance between them until he was mere inches from Victor’s face.
