Chapter 8
The bright, cinematic colors of the ballroom suddenly felt oppressive and suffocating. The guests, numbering over a hundred, parted like the Red Sea as Bennett began to walk slowly across the polished marble floor. His leather shoes clicked with a rhythmic, measured cadence that sounded like a countdown.
Every capo, bodyguard, and associate in the room held their breath. They saw the cold, sharp, intimidating look in their Boss's eyes. They saw the wine soaking his shirt, mimicking blood. No one dared to speak. No one dared to move.
Bennett walked with purposeful, terrifying grace. He bypassed the head tables, ignoring the frantic, questioning looks of his most trusted lieutenants. He kept his eyes locked dead ahead, navigating the sea of fair-skinned, terrified faces until he reached the far side of the room.
He stopped directly in front of Arthur Vance’s table.
Arthur’s rosy complexion had drained to a sickly, pale gray. He remained seated, his knuckles white as he gripped his glass of scotch. He tried to force a welcoming smile, but his American accent betrayed a profound, deep-seated terror.
"Bennett," Arthur said, his voice trembling slightly. "What is the meaning of the lockdown? Is there a security threat?"
Bennett did not answer immediately. He stood towering over the seated man. He spoke slowly, with those controlled, measured pauses that made every word sound like a physical blow.
"Fifty million dollars. Arthur," Bennett said softly. His volume was so low the surrounding guests had to lean in to hear him, making the threat feel intensely personal. "Is a heavy burden. To carry in a briefcase."
Arthur’s eyes darted frantically toward the briefcase resting under his chair. He swallowed hard. "I... I don't know what you are talking about, Boss. That is just shipping ledgers."
"Open it," Bennett commanded.
"Bennett, please, this is a misunderstanding," Arthur pleaded, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I am a loyal earner for this family! You cannot accuse me of—"
Bennett moved with blinding speed. His tattooed hand shot across the table, grabbing Arthur by the throat. The sheer masculine strength of the Boss lifted the sixty-year-old man completely out of his chair. He slammed Arthur backward onto the table, shattering plates and crystal glasses, sending expensive food scattering across the bright white tablecloth.
"Open the case," Bennett whispered, leaning over the gasping man, his face inches from Arthur’s. "Or I will open you."
Two bodyguards rushed forward, pulling the heavy briefcase from beneath the chair. They clicked the latches open and flipped the lid back.
Inside the case, stacked in neat, immaculate rows, were dozens of bearer bonds and high-denomination offshore bank drafts. It was a king’s ransom. Exactly fifty million dollars.
The collective gasp from the surrounding capos echoed through the silent ballroom.
"You sold my blood," Bennett stated, staring down into Arthur’s terrified eyes. "You arranged for a van. To take my children. To an unknown buyer."
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"They were going to be safe!" Arthur choked out, desperately trying to pry Bennett’s tattooed fingers off his throat. "The buyer just wanted leverage! He wasn't going to hurt them!"
"Who. Is the buyer?" Bennett asked, his voice dead calm and absolutely lethal.
