Chapter 9
The bright, airy light of the chandeliers seemed to hum with the electric tension crackling through the room. Ansel did not raise his voice, but his deep, masculine tone carried effortlessly to every corner of the crowded banquet hall.
"Marcus," Ansel called out, his voice slow and deliberate. "Silas. Victor."
He named three of the highest-ranking capos seated at the long tables. For a terrifying, breathless second, nobody moved. Quentin smiled, a slick, victorious grin spreading across his face as he looked down at his younger cousin.
"They aren't going to answer you, Ansel," Quentin sneered. "They know the era of the young king is over."
Then, the sound of heavy wooden chairs scraping against the cream marble floor shattered the silence.
Marcus, a massive, broad-shouldered man with graying hair, stood up from his champagne velvet chair. Across the room, Silas and Victor followed suit, their tailored suits rustling in the quiet space. They did not look at Quentin. Their eyes were locked with absolute, terrifying devotion on Ansel.
Slowly, methodically, half the men in the room rose to their feet. The metallic snick of concealed firearms being quietly drawn and cocked echoed from beneath the tablecloths, a symphony of lethal intent that instantly drained the blood from Quentin's face.
"You were saying, Quentin?" Ansel asked, his gaze never leaving his cousin. "Did you assume my authority was as fragile as my collarbone?"
Quentin took a slow, trembling step backward, his eyes darting wildly around the room as he realized he was completely surrounded. The men he thought he had bought had merely been waiting for their true boss to give the signal.
"This is a mistake, Ansel," Quentin stammered, raising his hands defensively. "We're family. We can negotiate this. I was just trying to show strength for the syndicate."
"Do you believe humiliation is a substitute for strength?" Ansel asked quietly, leaning slightly forward in his chair.
Maribel watched the exchange, her breath catching in her throat. The man beside her was not broken. He was a master of psychological warfare, allowing his enemies to expose themselves completely before dropping the guillotine. She realized that her desperate, violent push with the serving trolley hadn't saved Ansel; it had simply forced Quentin to reveal his treachery in front of the entire family.
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"I apologize, Ansel," Quentin swallowed hard, his arrogant posture completely crumbling under the weight of the aimed weapons. "I overstepped. I... I lost my temper."
"You lost your life," Ansel corrected softly. "The only question remaining is when I choose to collect it."
