Chapter 4
Maribel reached the serving trolley, her hands shaking as she pulled a small, silver-domed plate from the lower shelf. It was a reserve portion, kept warm for late arrivals. She gripped the edges of the porcelain tightly, the heat grounding her fractured nerves. She turned back toward the head table, her eyes locked on Ansel.
"You shouldn't indulge him, sweetheart," Quentin called out, noticing her approaching with the covered dish. "The doctor said he needs to eat light. We wouldn't want to upset his delicate constitution."
Maribel ignored the older man. She stepped gracefully beside Ansel and gently placed the covered plate directly in front of him. The silver dome caught the luminous, airy light of the chandeliers, a shining beacon of defiance against Quentin's petty cruelty.
"Your dinner, sir," Maribel said, her voice steady despite the terror twisting in her stomach.
Ansel looked at the plate, then up at Maribel. A flicker of profound respect crossed his cold features.
Before Ansel could speak, Quentin’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. His authority had just been bypassed by a housemaid. He reached across the table with lightning speed and grabbed the silver dome, dragging the plate violently out of Ansel’s reach and slamming it down near his own elbow.
"I said, he eats light," Quentin snapped, the polite veneer of his voice completely shattering.
Ansel’s eyes darkened into absolute, terrifying voids. Moving with slow, deliberate intent, Ansel reached forward with his uninjured left hand to take the plate back.
As Ansel’s fingers brushed the porcelain, Quentin reacted with brute force. He lunged forward, bringing his heavy, open palm down violently against the back of Ansel’s left hand, clamping his wrist ruthlessly against the polished walnut table.
Maribel gasped, her expressive eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated horror.
The sound of the impact echoed sharply. The nearby guests froze, their champagne glasses halted halfway to their mouths. To physically strike the Boss, to pin his only good hand to the table like a disobedient child, was an act of open rebellion.
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"You eat when I allow it," Quentin hissed, leaning in close, his face inches from Ansel’s. He looked directly at his younger cousin, his breath hot and spiteful. "You do everything when I allow it. Understand?"
Ansel did not flinch. He did not pull away. He looked up at Quentin, his deep, measured voice dropping into a register that chilled the blood of everyone within earshot. "Are you entirely sure you want to test the strength of a cornered animal, Quentin?"
