Chapter 7
The music inside the lakeside ballroom was a lively, sophisticated jazz number, bouncing cheerfully off the high, gilded ceilings. The bright, cinematic light reflected off crystal chandeliers, casting a flawless, vibrant glow over the fair, rosy-skinned guests. No one inside had heard the scuffle in the heavily soundproofed service corridor.
Bennett stood in the threshold of the open double doors, his three children safely tucked behind his legs. He stared at the specific table Gavin had looked toward.
Seated there, holding a glass of scotch and laughing with a group of lower-ranking capos, was Arthur Vance. Arthur was a sixty-year-old white American, a supposed loyalist who managed the family’s international shipping routes. He wore a crisp, tailored tuxedo and possessed the jovial, grandfatherly demeanor of a man completely above suspicion.
But Bennett’s cold, sharp eyes missed nothing. He noted the heavy, secure briefcase resting entirely out of place beneath Arthur’s chair. He noted the way Arthur periodically checked his luxury wristwatch, his eyes darting toward the service corridor with impatient expectation.
"Milo," Bennett murmured, not taking his eyes off the ballroom. His voice was a low, measured hum.
"Yes, Daddy?" the five-year-old asked, his tiny hand gripping the fabric of Bennett’s trousers.
"Take your sisters. Walk down the back hallway. Go straight to the security control room," Bennett instructed, his volume incredibly low. "Tell Marcus to lock the steel door. Do not come out until I come for you."
Milo nodded bravely, his fair cheeks pale but determined. He grabbed Nora and Tess by the hands, pulling them away from the service hall and disappearing down the adjacent, brightly lit corridor toward the estate's inner sanctum.
Once his children were out of sight, Bennett reached inside his tailored suit jacket. He pulled out a sleek, encrypted smartphone. He tapped a single button, connecting directly to his head of security.
"Marcus," Bennett said, the controlled pauses emphasizing his deadly intent. "Lock down. The ballroom. Seal the exterior doors. No one leaves."
"Boss? What's going on?" Marcus’s American accent crackled through the earpiece.
"Do it," Bennett commanded, hanging up the phone.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket. He reached up and slowly unfastened the top button of his ruined, wine-stained shirt, exposing more of the refined, negative-space tattoos on his chest and neck. The charming, romantic look of the loose hair falling over his forehead now framed the face of a ruthless, terrifying executioner.
Bennett stepped fully into the ballroom.
As he crossed the threshold, the heavy mahogany doors behind him slammed shut with a definitive, echoing thud. Simultaneously, across the massive room, the exterior patio doors automatically locked, thick steel deadbolts sliding into place with loud, mechanical clicks.
The jazz band faltered, the musicians lowering their instruments in confusion. The laughter and conversation of the guests slowly died away as they noticed the doors locking.
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Then, the crowd turned and saw Bennett.
He stood at the edge of the dance floor, covered in dark red wine, his hands bruised, radiating a purely masculine, distinctly Mafia Boss-like aura of impending death. The entire ballroom fell into absolute, terrified silence.
