Chapter 7
Donald Beaumont blinked, staring at the scarred patriarch in utter disbelief. "What... what did you say, Alaric?"
"I told you to pick up the shoe," Alaric repeated, not a single ripple of hesitation in his baritone.
Beaumont swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically to the exits. Four armed men in dark overcoats stood shoulder-to-shoulder before the heavy brass doors, their hands resting inside their jackets. Around him, the very friends who had toasted his investments five minutes ago took two steps backward, creating a wide, empty ring around him.
Trembling, his silver hair falling across his forehead, Beaumont slowly sank to his knees on the Persian rug. His manicured hands reached down, picking up the small leather flat, its interior cavity still stuffed with the mangled, crushed bread roll.
"Now take the bread out," Alaric said, watching him from above. "And eat it."
A collective gasp echoed through the room. A councilman’s wife pressed a lace handkerchief to her mouth, stifling a retch.
"Alaric, please!" Beaumont pleaded, tears of pure humiliation brimming in his pale eyes. "I am a seventy-year-old man! I have two seats on the municipal board! You cannot treat me like a dog!"
"You watched a three-year-old child stand barefoot on stone while my niece humiliated her," Alaric said, stepping closer until the toe of his polished shoe touched Beaumont’s knee. "You drank my scotch while her father was being beaten with iron pipes in a meat locker ten yards from your table. Eat the bread, Donald. Or Marco will take you down to the cellar and ensure you never chew solid food again."
Beaumont’s jaw worked silently. He looked into Alaric’s dead, pitiless eyes, and knew with absolute, chilling certainty that the threat was not theater.
With trembling fingers, the billionaire dug the crushed, greased bread out of the toddler's shoe. He forced the dry, filthy crust into his mouth, chewing slowly, his chest heaving with choked sobs as he swallowed the dust and leather residue under the silent gaze of two hundred peers.
Alaric did not look down to watch him finish. He turned back toward the buffet table.
"Marco," Alaric said.
"Yes, Don Alaric?"
"Clear this table," Alaric ordered, gesturing toward the thirty-foot spread of roasted beef, caviar, smoked salmon, and pastries. "Take the champagne and pour it down the drain. Bring fresh water, hot soup, and every plate of warm meat from the kitchen."
May you like
He looked at Thomas Vance, who was kneeling on the carpet, wrapping his bruised arms around his four shivering kitchen children.
"Bring the kitchen staff up," Alaric said, his voice cutting through the room like an iron bell. "Every dishwasher, every maid, every baker. This banquet is for them. The guests may stand against the wall and watch."
