Chapter 7
The medium-wide view of the head table painted a picture of absolute, suspended chaos. Maribel remained firmly planted beside Ansel, deliberately positioning her slender body between the injured Mafia boss and the upholstered chair where Quentin was slowly, furiously recovering his breath. Her fitted black maid dress and white apron stood in stark contrast to the tailored suits of the men, a fragile shield against the impending violence.
Behind them, the crowded banquet tables were a sea of frozen statues. The thirty-five guests were completely, utterly silent. Several smartphones remained raised in the air, capturing the unbelievable scene, but not a single person laughed, coughed, or whispered. The warm golden light of the chandeliers illuminated the absolute terror etched onto their fair, rosy faces.
"I'm staying right here," Maribel said, her voice trembling violently, but her gaze remaining steady and unyielding on Ansel.
Ansel stared at her, deeply moved by the protective attention radiating from her delicate features. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his left hand slightly beneath her trembling grip. He wrapped his long, heavily tattooed fingers around hers, returning her reassuring hold with a firm, grounding pressure.
"You are a foolish woman," Ansel murmured, though the words lacked any heat, carrying only a quiet, profound respect.
"Perhaps," Maribel replied, her eyes refusing to leave his. "But I am not a coward."
Across the gleaming surface of the serving trolley, movement broke the stillness. Quentin’s expensive leather shoes scraped loudly against the marble floor. His face, previously flushed with arrogance, was now contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated, murderous rage. He planted his hands on the armrests of the upholstered chair and began to push himself up.
Maribel noticed the movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head, looking directly toward the older man. She was visibly afraid, her chest heaving with rapid, shallow breaths, but she did not take a single step backward. She held her position, her flat shoes firmly planted on the floor, keeping herself squarely between the rising threat and the injured man she refused to abandon.
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"You dead little bitch," Quentin hissed, his voice a low, vibrating growl that carried across the silent ballroom. He shoved the serving trolley violently aside, the metal squealing in protest as he cleared a path to the housemaid. "Do you have any idea whose house you're in?"
"She knows exactly whose house she is in, Quentin," Ansel’s deep, measured voice cut through the air, vibrating with lethal authority.
