Chapter 8
Quentin stood fully upright, his expensive dinner suit rumpled from the collision. He ignored Ansel entirely, his furious, bloodshot eyes locked onto Maribel. He took a heavy, menacing step forward, raising his hand as if preparing to strike the housemaid down where she stood.
"You think wearing that little apron protects you?" Quentin spat, his American accent slurring slightly with rage. "You think because you serve the wine, you can put your hands on me? I'll have you buried under the foundation of this estate before the dessert course is served."
Maribel flinched, instinctively closing her eyes and bracing for the impact, but she did not move her body away from Ansel. She kept her fingers intertwined with the Mafia boss's left hand, drawing strength from his calm, steady grip.
"Take another step toward her, Quentin," Ansel commanded.
The volume of Ansel’s voice did not rise. It remained low, deep, and remarkably controlled, but the sheer, freezing terror injected into the measured pauses between his words stopped Quentin dead in his tracks.
Quentin turned his head, looking down at his younger cousin. He sneered, gesturing toward Ansel's medical sling. "What are you going to do about it, Ansel? You can't even lift a fork. You're broken. The syndicate knows it. I know it. You're going to sit there and watch me beat this maid to death, and then you're going to sign the transition papers."
"Do you believe my power resides in my right arm?" Ansel asked quietly.
"I believe your power is a myth," Quentin countered, looking around the silent room, attempting to rally the thirty-five guests to his side. "Look at him! He's hiding behind a servant! Is this the man you want leading the families? A cripple who needs a maid to fight his battles?"
The room remained dead silent. The guests shifted uncomfortably in their velvet chairs, their eyes darting between the furious older man and the terrifyingly calm boss seated at the head table.
"You misunderstand the situation, cousin," Ansel said slowly, his cold, sharp eyes locking onto Quentin's flushed face. "She did not fight my battle. She merely postponed your execution. Did you truly believe you could lay your hands on me in front of my loyalists and walk out of this luminous room with your life?"
"Loyalists?" Quentin barked a harsh laugh. "They belong to me now! I control the ports! I control the distribution! They know who holds the future of this family!"
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Ansel slowly pulled his left hand free from Maribel's protective grip. He rested his hands flat on the polished walnut table, the artistic tattoos stark against the white linen.
"Then let us ask them," Ansel murmured.
