Chapter 10
The luminous, elegant warmth of the ballroom offered no solace to Quentin as he stood trembling before the head table. The clear lighting exposed every drop of sweat forming on his fair, rosy forehead. He was a dead man walking, trapped in a room full of loaded guns, facing a boss who spoke only in terrifying, measured questions.
"Ansel, please," Quentin begged, his voice dropping to a pathetic whisper. "Don't do this here. Not in front of the families."
"Are you asking for my mercy, after you publicly demanded my submission?" Ansel asked, his deep voice devoid of any emotion.
He looked away from his cousin, turning his cold, sharp eyes up toward Maribel. She was still standing defensively beside his chair, her black maid dress immaculate, her posture rigid with residual adrenaline. The protective fire in her expressive eyes hadn't dimmed.
"Maribel," Ansel said softly, ensuring only she could hear the warmth hidden beneath his lethal tone. "Will you fetch me a fresh glass of water? It appears my current one has been tainted by poor company."
Maribel blinked, her heart fluttering at the sudden, mundane request amidst the chaos of a mafia coup. She looked down at him, understanding the silent command. He was giving her an excuse to leave the immediate danger zone, to step away before the violence truly began.
"Right away, sir," Maribel nodded, her voice steady.
She turned and began to walk away, but before she took a second step, Quentin made a fatal, desperate miscalculation. Humiliated and terrified, he lunged forward, reaching out to grab Maribel's white apron to use her as a hostage.
"If I die, she dies!" Quentin screamed, his fingers inches from the fabric.
Ansel moved faster than a man with a shattered shoulder had any right to. He kicked his chair backward, his left hand shooting out with terrifying speed. He grabbed the heavy, silver candelabra resting on the table and swung it violently.
The heavy brass base cracked sickeningly against Quentin's jaw. The older man collapsed instantly, hitting the cream marble floor in a lifeless, unconscious heap.
The thirty-five guests gasped, but no one moved to help him.
Ansel stood over the unconscious man, his chest heaving slightly, the medical sling holding his right arm tight against his ribs. He dropped the silver candelabra onto the floor, the metallic clatter echoing in the silent room.
He turned to Maribel. She was staring at him, her eyes wide with shock, but she hadn't run. She had stayed right beside him.
"Are you unharmed?" Ansel asked quietly, his eyes scanning her delicate features for any sign of injury.
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"I'm fine," Maribel breathed, taking a step closer to him.
Ansel looked out at the room of standing men, then back to the woman who had fought for him. The engagement dinner was ruined, the family fractured, and a war for the syndicate had just been officially declared. But as Ansel looked into Maribel's fierce, protective eyes, he knew exactly who he wanted by his side when the real fighting began.
