Nerys offered half her bread roll to a seated stranger, only for acting manager Winifred to rip the shoe from the girl’s foot, cram the food inside, and sneer that if she fed beggars, she would eat like one.

The silence in the room thickened into pure dread.

From the arched entrance of the ballroom, the sound of heavy, disciplined footsteps broke the quiet. Marco, Alaric’s chief enforcer—a six-foot-three veteran with a shaved head and a dark trench coat—walked into the hall. Under his left arm, he carried a heavy, bound leather audit ledger; in his right hand, he held two confiscated satellite phones sealed inside an evidence bag.

Behind Marco walked four Marwood soldiers in dark suits. They fanned out across the room, quietly locking the double mahogany exit doors and stepping in front of the club’s private security guards. Not a single house guard moved a finger to resist.

Marco stopped beside Alaric, snapping the leather ledger open onto the low buffet table, right on top of the spilled bread.

"The audit is complete, Don Alaric," Marco reported, his voice flat, gravelly, and carrying across the entire ballroom. "Miss Marwood opened three unauthorized escrow accounts in Nassau last month. She diverted two point four million from the kitchen pension trust and another three million from the municipal port relief fund."

Winifred lunged forward, her hands clawing toward the pages. "That’s a lie! Marco forged those receipts! He’s always wanted my district!"

Marco didn't even flinch. He simply turned the ledger, pointing a gloved finger at the bottom of the wire authorizations. "Her signature, sir. Notarized by Donald Beaumont at the harbor bank forty-eight hours ago."

Alaric turned his head, his cold eyes sweeping over the crowd of frozen aristocrats until they settled on a tall, silver-haired man in a white tuxedo standing near the ice sculpture.

Donald Beaumont, the billionaire chairman of the port investment committee, dropped his glass of scotch. The crystal shattered across the marble, amber liquid splashing over his polished shoes.

"Alaric... listen to me," Beaumont stammered, raising both hands, his tanned face draining of all color. "It was a bridge loan! Purely operational! Winifred assured me that the Marwood council had ratified the restructuring—"

"You sat at my father's table for twenty years, Donald," Alaric said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "You knew the rule of this house. We take from the state, we take from the shipping lanes, and we take from the banks. But we never touch the bread of the men who work our breadlines."